


Something borrowed, something red

by edenforest



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic, Pre-Relationship, Russian Mafia, Sex, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Undercover, Weddings, gallya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6994726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenforest/pseuds/edenforest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya didn’t have any microphones or trackers so Gaby would hear the happy news about her newly decided engagement and marriage only when he returned to HQ. Illya could already imagine her unbelievable expression, that little confused laugh. Then she would frown and ask was he being serious. But if this was the only way into the Russian mafia, it had to be done. And it was only a fake wedding. How hard that could be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three proposals

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, you don't know how much I wanted to name this at 'Red Wedding'.

Illya sat down and took the glass he was offered. He nodded to the other men in the room. He let his body relax against the leather club chair, shook his head to a cigar, and tasted his whisky. It was quality stuff. Not that he had expected anything less. With Dragomirov he had got used to expecting only the best.

“We rarely cooperate with outsiders,” a dark-haired man said in Russian. His hair had started to turn a little grey at his temples. His suit was double-breasted and his signet ring was so big that he could have hit somebody unconscious with it. He was Vasiliy Ivanovich Dragomirov, sixty-three years old, head of the Russian mafia in London. “But we have heard nothing but good about you.”

”Thank you,” Illya replied. ”I like to make it my business to work in a manner that leaves clients and associates content,” he said, not particularly proudly, only in a way that this was how he made business and didn’t expect thanks.

“We are very tightly knit group,” Vasiliy said and nodded towards the other men in the room. “My brothers and sons are the people I do business with. Not strangers.”

“Am I still a stranger,” Illya asked, “Vasiliy Ivanovich?”

”Vasiliy,” he laughed. ”I think you are not. And you should call me only Vasiliy. Yes, I have for some time now thought that maybe we should get some new blood among us. Helping to deal with those pesky Yugoslavians. It can’t harm for trying. And if it doesn’t go as planned, then…” he didn’t finish his sentence, merely shrugged his broad shoulders and glanced at the other men. He started to laugh, a deep and booming laugh, and the others joined him.

Then Illya laughed a little with them. He knew what he was saying. If things didn’t work out, his partners may never find his body.

”But I think we will give you a chance,” Vasiliy said.

“That’s why I’m here,” Illya state and nodded. He didn’t show his relief. After months of observation and preliminary intel from other agents, countless interrogations and dealing with disloyal informers, they were finally in. Or at least getting in. He stayed calm like he had been the whole time.

“To working together,” Vasiliy toasted and lifted his glass. Illya lifted his and the others theirs. They drank. Vasiliy looked at the amber liquid in his glass. “But tell us more about you,” he asked and turned again to look at Illya. “I know everything about your business and career, but not much about your personal life. You said you had a fiancée.”

“Yes,” Illya confirmed. A fiancée who didn’t really exist, made up just so he would fit better among the family-oriented criminals.

“I would like to meet her,” Vasiliy said. “I’m sure she is a lovely girl.”

“Of course,” Illya promised and sipped his whisky. So now he needed an actual girl. That wasn’t a problem. Gaby could do that. She would visit Vasiliy, tilt her head, smile, and laugh at his jokes. He would love her. She could do that.

“We should eat together,” Vasiliy decided. ”You are going to bring her to dinner at my house,” he said.

Illya nodded. A meal. Easy.

There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Dragomirov stepped in. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said politely even if everybody, including Illya, knew she didn’t really care if she was interrupting. She would come in whenever she wanted to. Zoya Yakovlevna Dragomirova was ten years younger than her husband. She was wearing more jewelry at once than most people even owned.

“Of course not, darling,” Vasiliy assured. “I was just inviting Illya and his fiancée to dine with us,” he told and turned back to Illya. “How’s Sunday?”

“Sunday is good,” Illya said.

“That’s nice,” Zoya sighed delighted. ”What’s her name?”

“Gaby,” Illya said and gave the job to her without asking anybody.  It’s not like there was anybody else they would use. It was going to be Gaby no matter what name he gave. And Illya didn’t mind. He was happy to pretend to be Gaby’s fiancé. They had done it before.

”Have you already set the date?” Zoya asked. “Oh, how I love weddings. Too bad that all my own children are already married, so there is nobody’s wedding anymore to organize.”

“Not yet,” Illya told. “Maybe in autumn.”

“Autumn?” Zoya sighed. ”Why then? All the leaves are falling down, flowers wither, nature dies. You should marry now, in spring, when the cherry blossoms bloom. I’m sure your Gaby would look lovely among cherry blossoms,” she suspected, smiling, and Illya smiled back. Zoya gasped excitedly when she got an idea. “No, but now when you are starting to do business together and you’re practically a family, I can organize everything for you. We will take care of everything.”

“That’s not necessary,” Illya said. “We don’t want to bother you.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” Zoya assured him and waved her hand. “Vaska, what say you? None of our boys had their wedding at the mansion, and it’s so beautiful in spring. It would be a nice gesture to join them to the family.”

“You can’t hijack their wedding,” Vasiliy muttered and patted his wife’s wrist gently. “I’m sure Illya and his fiancée know better by themselves.”

Zoya looked Illya and he saw it. He saw her determination and the power she had over her husband. Illya needed to get along with the man, but the woman was the one he needed to keep happy.

“Imagine how easy everything would be,” Zoya said gently. “You can concentrate on your affairs and I can make all the wedding plans with your fiancée. I have many connections that will help us. Everything will be ready in no time. Or don’t you want to marry your girl?” she then asked and tilted her head. “Because to us, family and commitment are very important,” she reminded him and slid her arm over her husband’s shoulders.

Illya smiled softly. “Of course I intend to marry her,” he said, because it was the only thing he could say. He couldn’t really say no. The look Zoya Yakovlevna was giving him had made it clear; there was either a wedding she would plan or there would be no further business between Illya and her family. And after months of work Illya couldn’t say no. “I think Gaby would love to wed among the cherry blossoms.”

“Lovely,” Zoya sighed happily.

“Of course I need to ask her,” Illya pointed out.

“Of course,” Zoya nodded. ”And Sunday we will set the date,” she said and with that the decision was made. There would be a wedding and she would organize it. The happy couple had very little to say about that.

Illya tasted his whisky. He didn’t have any microphones or trackers because everybody was always checked before entering the house. Gaby would hear the happy news about her newly decided engagement and marriage only when he returned to HQ. Illya could already imagine her unbelievable expression, that little confused laugh. Then she would frown and ask was he being serious. But if this was the only way in, it had to be done. And it was only a fake wedding. Still, a marriage wasn’t quite as easy as a meal.

 

***

 

Illya walked through HQ straight to Waverly’s office. Napoleon and Gaby were already there.

“Kuryakin,” Waverly greeted and sounded almost excited and they all turned to look at Illya. “The boys in the surveillance van said they only managed to get bits and pieces of the conversation, but apparently everything went like we wanted. Is that right?”

Illya sat down and opened the buttons of his jacket. “Everything went as planned. They are ready to make business.”

“Excellent,” Waverly said firmly. “Finally. Goddamn, those Russians have been a thorn in my side ever since we started to approach them,” he huffed, relieved, and Illya frowned. “Luckily we have our own Russian to work with them,” he joked and Gaby and Napoleon grinned. “Tell us more.”

“There is not much to tell yet,” Illya said. “I am going there on Sunday to have dinner.”

“Well done,” Waverly nodded, thrilled that they were finally starting to make progress.

“With my fiancée,” Illya continued.

Everybody turned to look at Illya. “What fiancée?” Napoleon asked.

“The fiancée I said I have,” Illya answered. “It was sensible thing to say. They are all married, very family centric, closely knit group. It was logical to let them know that I was committed. I did not have a ring so I could not say I was married. So, fiancée.”

Waverly nodded. ”Well played. It’s good that you fit in. Gaby, you can do that, I assume?”

Gaby shrugged her shoulders. “Yes.” She turned to face Illya. “What did you tell about me? What’s my name?”

“Gaby,” Illya said.

“Imagine that,” Napoleon smirked.

Illya huffed. “Who then I was supposed to say? Who else would pretend to be her? You in a wig? Is someone here really saying that there was some other choice we were doing to go?” he asked, annoyed, and when nobody said anything he asked again: “Well?”

“No,” Waverly said. ”Of course Gaby would be our only choice. Well, not only, but the best.”

Gaby nodded because she was agreeing. “Is there something special I should know?”

Illya shook his head. “Not that much,” he said and pursed his lips. “Only that the wife decided that we should marry when the cherry blossoms bloom and she is organizing everything.”

“What?” Gaby asked and frowned. She made a tiny laugh even if she wasn’t at all amused and squinted at him. “Are you being serious?”

“I could not say no. She was talking about family and commitment and made it very clear that either there was a wedding or her husband would not do business with me,” Illya said.

“We can’t get married,” Gaby sighed. “And when? When the cherry blossoms bloom? I think there are already buds in the trees. Is she going to plan the wedding in a few weeks?”

“Most likely,” Illya said. ”What does it matter? It is not a real marriage. And if we somehow get all that we need from them before that, we do not even have to pretend to get married.”

“This is ridiculous,” Gaby said tightly.

“If it’s the route in we should use it,” Napoleon noted.

“You say that because you expect this to be funny,” Gaby accused and crossed her arms.

“Oh, I’m counting on that,” Napoleon grinned. “And I’m sure you will look beautiful in your wedding gown.”

Gaby scowled at him but didn’t say anything. The decision had already been made and they would wed. They would pretend to, at least. “You better get me a diamond the size of the moon,” Gaby huffed to Illya and glared at him too.

“It’s settled,” Waverly sighed. “Excellent. We need some other plan for meetings, I don’t want you two coming to HQ before this is over. Let’s not take any unnecessary risks. And let’s try to get Solo somehow included at the wedding party so you can get all the information there is to have.”

“I can be the best man,” Napoleon said. “I have a lot of made-up stories of Illya and Gaby,” he assured them.

“It would not look good if there is an American there,” Illya pointed out. “It would be weird and they would not like that.”

“I speak the language, I can be Russian,” Napoleon reminded.

Illya turned slowly to look at him. “No, you really cannot,” he said firmly. “Trust me. No one would believe you even if you were lying in a gutter in Moscow, wearing a fur hat and reeking like cheap vodka.”

“I would like to see that,” Gaby said.

“We all would, but he still could not pretend to be a Russian,” Illya comment.

“I can be the priest,” Napoleon suggested.

Gaby laughed. “No, you really can’t,” she mocked. “You would be even worse as a priest than Russian.”

 

***

 

Gaby lifted her hand and examined her ring. It was gold and there was nicely cut clear stone. She moved her hand so that the lights caught the stone and made it sparkle. It looked real and it felt real. It was an impressive replica. Even she had to admit that.

“You have now stared at it for fifteen minutes,” Illya noted. “Are you going to accept that?” he asked. “You didn’t have anything against the ring last time.”

“I wasn’t going to get married last time,” Gaby muttered.

“You are not going to get married now,” Illya pointed out and changed the gear. It had taken a long argument on the curb before he could get Gaby to sit in the passenger seat.

“Still,” Gaby sighed and turned the stone against the light. “It’s see-through. Where have you hidden the tracker?” she asked and lifted her other brow.

Illya glance at her from under his brows. “No tracker,” he promised. “Please, don’t lose it.”

“I expected a bigger stone,” Gaby said.

“The stone is big enough for your dainty fingers,” Illya informed her dryly. “You don’t want anything that looks fake.”

Gaby hummed and finally set the hand on her lap. “I guess it’s fine,” she gave her judgement. She really didn’t have anything against the ring. It was quite a nice ring, she liked it. It was not too big nor did it look flashy. It looked respectful and real. And somehow old, like there was a story with it. It looked like it had previous owners, history and family behind it. It made her feel like she was part of something bigger.

Illya drove in the stone paved driveway of a grand house and faced Gaby. “Are you ready?”

“Of course,” Gaby said and lifted her chin. She was already opening her door, when Illya stopped her.

“I am sure somebody already noticed us. I will open the doors. And fill your glass and take your coat and pull your chair. And you will let me.”

Gaby rolled her eyes but waited patiently for Illya to go around the car and open her door. He offered his arm and Gaby took it. “So it’s going to be very traditional,” she sighed

“Yes,” Illya said. ”I expect you to survive that.”

Gaby glanced at him and wasn’t sure was he actually joking. Apparently organized crime suited him. She let Illya walk her to the door which opened before they reached it. A big, middle-aged man, with dark hair that had started to turn grey appeared from it. Gaby recognized him from the photographs.

“Illya,” Vasiliy greeted them, smiling. ”And this charming creature must be Gaby,” he said and held his hand towards them. His English had a thick accent which Gaby liked, like she liked Illya’s accent.

Vasiliy was the type of man Illya didn’t normally much care for. He was very affectionate; he was constantly patting shoulders and hugging people. He always pushed drinks and cigars and food. He wanted to know everything about everybody. He liked to laugh and tease. And he was of course a criminal. And still Illya kind of liked him. He was somehow very easy to be around. He made everybody comfortable by being what he was. And if Vasiliy liked something better than anything else, it was the ladies. He liked all of them, every age, every size. And he treated them like family immediately. According to age, every woman he met was an immediate mother, sister, daughter or granddaughter to him. But only Zoya was his wife. She knew that and didn’t mind her husband constantly touching other women.

Knowing that, Illya knew how Vasiliy would treat Gaby and still he decided not to tell her. Partly because it wasn’t anything she wouldn’t manage, but mostly because it would probably be quite amusing.

Gaby let go of Illya’s arm and took Mr. Dragomirov’s hand. She gasped sharply when he pulled her unexpectedly in a tight bearlike hug. Then he pressed a wet kiss on both of her cheeks.

“Small and pretty, like a doll,” Vasiliy announced.

Gaby laughed nervously.

“Friends, let’s go in,” Vasiliy said and wrapped his arm tightly over Gaby’s shoulders and guided her in.

Gaby glanced Illya over her shoulder. She noticed he was covering a slight grin. It was obvious that he had known this was going to happen and this was how Mr. Dragomirov was going to treat her, and yet he had done nothing to warn her. He had wanted to see her baffled. Gaby didn’t have any choice but to go with Mr. Dragomirov when he pulled her inside the house. He looked and acted like a bear and smelled of sharp cologne and cigars.

“You must be Gaby,” a woman who Gaby recognized as Mrs. Dragomirov said, and smiled at her. Mr. Dragomirov let go of Gaby and then there were more cheek kisses from the perfumed lady of the house.

Everybody smiled at her and Gaby was nervous. She felt suddenly like she was in her fiancé’s home to meet his family for the first time, even though Illya wasn’t her actual fiancé and the Dragomirov weren’t his family. Still Gaby felt like she needed to make an impression.

She took the champagne glass they were offering her and let Vasiliy, who insisted that she should call him Vaska, walk her to the drawing room. He sat tightly next to her on the couch and again squeezed her shoulders.

“Tell us, how did you two meet?” Vasiliy wanted to know. “Illya did not tell us.”

Illya sat with his glass on an armchair opposite the couch and seemed to be amused when Gaby got all the attention and didn’t quite know what to do with all of it.

Gaby knew the story how they had met. It was simple and not very interesting, like meeting people actually was. They had met through a mutual acquaintance, had coffee together, started seeing each other, Illya had proposed; now they were getting married. But now when she watched Illya and his almost imperceptible grin she felt like he deserved a better story. They both deserved a better story.

“We bumped into each other on the street,” Gaby said and smiled at Vasiliy. In the corner of her eye she saw Illya looking at her when she diverge from the story they had agreed on. “It was quite amusing really. It had been raining and there were puddles everywhere. He splashed my shoes wet when he walked past me. And I pointed that out. He was, of course, a gentleman and apologized and wanted to buy me a cup of coffee for an apology,” she told. “I said no, but he insisted. He started following me and tried to convince me. He was begging.”

“I don’t remember begging,” Illya remarked quite dryly.

Gaby looked at him and smiled. “You were begging, Liebchen,” she assured him, and turned back to Vasiliy. “Seventeen blocks he begged until we got to my work place. I still said no but he didn’t let the thing go,” Gaby made up the story as she went on. “For two weeks he came in every day to ask me out for coffee. We started to guess at work would the Russian reappear again today to ask me out. And every day he came.”

“Was it really two weeks?” Illya asked. ”It felt much shorter time.” He was annoyed that Gaby was portraying him as a desperate fool.

“It was,” Gaby chuckled lightly. “He even brought flowers a few times.”

“He was determined to get the girl,” Vasiliy said like it was obvious.

“Please tell us that you let him out of his misery after two weeks?” Zoya asked, smiling.

“Yes,” Gaby said. “Mainly so he would stop coming. So I had coffee with him and he told me that he loved me after forty-five minutes,” Gaby claimed.

Illya rolled his eyes and then forced a smile when everybody turned to look at him.

“What can you do about something like that?” Gaby sighed. “I had to continue seeing him because he was so endearingly desperate. He proposed after a month. First time, that is. I said yes to the third proposal.”

“Third time’s the charm,” Zoya said. “It is nice to see that men are still romantic.”

Illya nodded and sipped his drink. Gaby turned to look at him, tilted her head and smiled sweetly. Illya smiled back, a little forced. He knew Gaby was doing this because he hadn’t warned that Vasiliy would probably treat her like he did. He hoped that she had humiliated him enough.

Somebody came to tell that dinner was served and they stood up. Zoya grabbed her husband’s arm so Illya could take hold of his own fiancée.

”I proposed three times?” Illya muttered quietly when they walked slowly behind everybody else.

“You were desperate,” Gaby sighed and smiled at Illya’s frown. “ _Liebchen_.”

Illya smoothed his forehead when they entered the dining room. He pulled a chair for Gaby and sat next to her.

Zoya mentioned the wedding even before they had finished the appetizers. “You cannot possibly wait until autumn,” she insisted. “The nature dies. No, you need to marry now, when it is waking up after the winter. You are young, you need sun and freshly blooming flowers. And besides, it would be cruel to kept Illya waiting when he is so eager to marry you. He did propose you three times.”

“That is true,” Gaby muttered. She had said it herself.

“And our mansion in Buckinghamshire would be perfect for a spring wedding,” Zoya continued. “Not too big, not too small. I understood that neither of you really have family.”

“And now you need not to worry about that,” Vasiliy said cheerfully. “You have us now. You are part of our family now.”

“In three weeks’ time all the cherry and apple trees are blooming,” Zoya told. “It is going to be perfect. Yes?” she smiled.

Gaby understood why Illya had said yes originally. It was clear that ’yes’ was the only answer if they wanted to continue their business. She was determined; Gaby could see it. “That sounds lovely,” Gaby sighed and took a big gulp of her wine. Apparently they were getting married in three weeks’ time under the blooming trees.

 

***

 

Illya drove Gaby home, or more exactly to the apartment she would live in before she married. Gaby had brought two suitcases full of her possessions to HQ and they had quickly arranged a little apartment for her to stay in during the mission. She took the key from her purse and stepped in for the first time. Illya pulled the door closed after him and Gaby turned the light on.

It was weird. She had always lived in a hotel or some faceless safe house; this was the first apartment that had been staged for her. It was tiny, only a quarter of her own apartment. There wasn’t an actual kitchen, only a hotplate and tiny refrigerator. But after looking around it was kind of her apartment. Her clothes were in the drawers, her earrings in a porcelain saucer on the bedside table, her cardigan thrown on the armchair, like it was at home. Whoever had staged her apartment had done an excellent job; the only thing missing was the dirty cups on tables and shelves. She had to wonder had the person who had done this broken into her apartment to see what it looked like. Probably yes. It looked like she lived there. Only thing truly different was Illya’s picture on top of the dressed.

Illya sat on the narrow bed and the springs squeaked loudly. “Zoya Yakovlevna is the one we need to keep happy,” Illya said.

“Zoya,” Gaby corrected. “Remember, she wants us to call her Zoya.”

“Zoya,” Illya said, even though he was alone with Gaby. It was still better to get used to it. “She likes to make the decisions, so let her. But don’t let her walk all over you.”

“She probably wants to pick my wedding dress,” Gaby suspected and rolled her eyes. “I hope she doesn’t try to cover me with as much jewelry as she likes to wear.” Gaby walked back and forth on the rug in front of the bed and fingered the engagement ring on her finger and noticed Illya looking at that. “What?”

“You are playing with your ring,” Illya pointed out.

“It’s new,” Gaby sighed. “I haven’t got used to it. And I didn’t play with it at the Dragomirov’s.”

“No,” Illya granted. “But you have still allegedly worn it six months. Try to remember that you are used to it.”

“Of course,” Gaby sighed and lowered her hands.

“And don’t lose it,” Illya said.

“I’m not going to lose it,” Gaby said annoyed. “Do I usually misplace my things?” she asked and then answered immediately: “No. So why would I lose this ring?”

“I am only saying,” Illya said. ”I need it back after this.”

“Oh, _this one_ you need back,” Gaby muttered and continued pacing. She went to the table next to the refrigerator and looked at her new tea cups on the shelf above it. “Do you want a cup of tea? I can make.”

“Sure,” Illya said. “There was car following us. Probably looks better if we spent time together. We are after all getting married. They most likely will follow both of us from now.”

Gaby nodded and filled the kettle from the bathroom tap. She set it on the hotplate and turned it on. She took the cups and teapot and got them ready on the table. ”Last time you wanted me to keep the ring,” she noted. ”Why do you need this one back? It’s just a piece of glass.”

“It is a diamond,” Illya corrected. “Zoya would notice fake ring immediately. It needed to be real.”

Gaby frowned and glanced Illya over her shoulder. “You bought me a diamond?” she asked nonplussed. Gaby lifted her hand to look the ring more closely. It felt real because it was.

“I did not buy it,” Illya said. “It is… it is my mother’s wedding ring. And before that it was her mother’s and before that her mother’s. And if I ever get married I need that ring for my _actual_ fiancée. So don’t lose it,” he asked. “Just in case.”

Gaby watched the ring and moved her finger so that the light shimmered on it. She didn’t dare to turn to look at Illya behind her. He had given his mother’s ring to her, a precious heirloom. Something he would one day use to make somebody his own. Just in case, he had said. That little sentence moved her. In the middle of the cold war, after all he had been through, Illya hadn’t completely given up hope that he could have something normal and permanent in his life. Gaby had never thought would Illya be the marrying kind of man, but apparently he was. And now when Gaby saw that, she was sure that he would probably like to have children too. Suddenly he suited his role a little better.

The kettle whistled and Gaby woke from her thoughts and stopped staring at the ring. She turned the hotplate off and poured the water in the teapot. She made the tea calmly, her back still turned to Illya. She only turned to him when she had two cups ready and handed the other one to him.

“Thank you,” Illya said when he took the cup from her and their fingertips touched.

Gaby sat next to him on the bed and the springs squeaked under her. “I’m not going to lose the ring,” Gaby promised and blew on her tea.


	2. Reverend Thomas

Gaby couldn’t say anything bad about the Dragomirov mansion. It was a beautiful, cream coloured regency manor. And in the back of the house grew cherry and apple trees, like she had been promised. They were still bare, but soon they would bloom. And if they didn’t complete their mission in three weeks’ time, which Gaby didn’t see happening, they would get married there. She glanced at Illya, whose arm she was holding and then the bare trees again.

“The garden is bare now, but not much longer,” Zoya assured them. “The trees bloom and tulips will rise from the ground. And then it is spring here.”

Gaby smiled. “I’m sure it’s going to be beautiful.”

“Yes,” Zoya said. She hummed, pleased, glanced at her husband and then at Gaby. “We should go inside to look at the place. Let them do their business. I am sure they will manage without us.”

Gaby smiled again. She let go of Illya’s arm and followed Zoya.

“No kiss for the fiancé?” Zoya teased and laugh. “You do not have to be coy because of us.”

Gaby stopped and took few steps back to Illya. She leaned on his arm, rose on her tiptoes and pressed a quick but soft kiss on Illya’s cheek. He tilted his head towards her and both felt stiff. Gaby hoped it would show as a shyness of kissing when other people were watching. She smiled to Illya, let go of him and followed Zoya again.

“I did not mean to make you embarrassed,” Zoya said, a little apologetic.

“We don’t usually kiss when there are other people around,” Gaby said and smiled quaintly. “We save that when we are alone.”

Zoya smiled. “To be young and in love and wonderfully secretive again.”

Gaby hummed and followed Zoya inside the mansion. The rooms were big and full of natural light. Plaster ornaments were in every ceiling. Zoya guided her through the downstairs and pointed out places. There they would cut the cake, there they would be dancing, that door they would exit to leave to their honeymoon. Gaby started to feel like she was actually getting married.

“Where are you going?” Zoya asked. “In honeymoon?”

“Rome,” Gaby said because it was an easy pick. The image appeared easily in her head; they would stay at the Grand Hotel Plaza, wrestle in the living-room, Illya would tell some nonsense about Russians at the Spanish steps. They would make love and eat well; it would be a great made-up honeymoon.

“The eternal city,” Zoya sighed. “How romantic.”

“Illya’s decision,” Gaby told her and stuck to her claim that Illya was secretly very soft and very romantic. “But I seconded it,” she continued, to give the impression that, like Zoya, she also gave the last approval on things.

“When there is not much time we need to start to make the dress immediately,” Zoya said like she already had everything planned. She looked over Gaby, who wore green dress and a little jacket. “Luckily I have a seamstress who is wonderfully fast. White, of course. Or are you so modern that you would want a colourful dress?”

Gaby could tell from her tone that it was okay to be modern, but not that modern. “White,” she mirrored, “of course.”

“Maybe a veil,” Zoya pondered and looked at her. “Yes, a veil. You are young. Let’s see the upstairs. There you will stay the night before. Separate rooms, of course. We do not want bad luck. We have dinner here the previous day among the selected guests. Mostly family. Everyone will attend, even if there are those who do not like that Vaska is bringing in outsiders. But that is none of our concern.”

Gaby nodded and stayed looking calm and relaxed. She wanted to frown and ask who was against them. But she knew she needed to act like she didn’t care about those sorts of things. Illya would handle that, she would concentrate on her dress and hors d'oeuvres. The wedding details didn’t really bother Gaby. Even if it didn’t always feel like it, she knew that the wedding was fake and it didn’t matter where she would cut the cake or what she would wear. It wasn’t really her wedding. She followed Zoya from room to room, smiled and nodded and said ’yes’ when she was asked something.

 

***

 

Illya followed Vasiliy inside shortly after Gaby and Zoya. They went into the wood paneled den and he poured them cognac.

“My wife seems to be controlling your wedding,” Vasiliy said and handed a glass to Illya. “I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s just a party,” Illya said, “and Gaby can hold her own. She is like that.”

Vasiliy nodded. “And cute as a button. If I were thirty, even twenty, years younger, you, my friend, would be in great trouble. I would use all my guns to steal that girl from you.”

“I’m sure Zoya wouldn't mind that at all?” Illya said.

Vasiliy laughed. “You are right. There would be nothing left of me if I ever tried anything like that.”

“And what makes you think Gaby would change me for you?” Illya asked.

“You are sure of yourself,” Vasiliy smiled. “I like that. Sit down.”

Illya sat down and Vasiliy sat in the chair opposite him.

“I need to confess that while most of us are embracing the idea of new blood, there are those who don’t see newcomers as a positive matter,” Vasiliy told Illya. “Well, mostly it is my niece’s husband, Anatoly. He has been in charge of the weapons dealing; which has always been quite small part of our business, as you know. And now when we have you, who are expert in that, he feels like I’m replacing him.”

“But you are not,” Illya said.

“No. But I’m bringing a new player on the field so to speak,” Vasiliy sighed. “He doesn’t like it. And I’m not sure how to deal with it. Apparently his marriage is also in trouble. So now he feels threatened in every direction and instead of dealing with it like a man, he acts out, like a child. I don’t like that. And with all the problems we have with the Yugoslavs I really don’t need this now.”

“Maybe I should meet him myself,” Illya suggested. He didn’t know what he should say to the man, but he felt Vasiliy would appreciate a direct approach. “Talk to him and clear the situation.”

“We can arrange a meeting,” Vasiliy nodded.

“I would rather meet him privately,” Illya said. “If he worries about his future in the company, maybe he would prefer you not being there. He might think that you don’t believe he can cope by himself.”

“Or you might think that,” Vasiliy said and lifted his bushy brows.

“That’s not a problem,” Illya assured firmly.

“I really didn’t think so,” Vasiliy nodded again. “I’m sure there isn’t much you can’t handle. I can see it in you; natural survivor. I can see it in your girl too. And that is what we need among us; new ideas, survivors, tough and strong people you can’t break.”

“Well, she is that,” Illya muttered.

Vasiliy hummed approvingly. He liked the newcomers. He liked Illya and his petite fiancée. Neither has said anything, but he could see the girl had been behind the wall. But he wasn’t going to say anything if they didn’t bring it up. It wasn’t really his business. Besides, he had left Russia too. Only it wasn’t Russia anymore. It was Soviet Union, and it really didn’t offer anything to him anymore. New life was what they had left to seek from behind the Iron Curtain. Gaby and Illya seemed the same; Gaby boldly and clearly, Illya more muted. But it was in him too: the need for escape.

They were what the family needed; two strong people who wouldn’t sink in the first storm.

 

***

 

Gaby went outside to look around when Zoya sent her there so she could go to the kitchen and make sure the lunch was done just the way she liked. Gaby walked in the garden for a while. Illya stepped out from a glass door behind the house and came to her. He offered his arm and Gaby took it. They walked around slowly and then Gaby yanked him gently with her towards the fruit trees.

“Come. We would go kissing under the cherry trees. We are in love,” she said.

Illya hummed to her and let her pull him along among the trees. “Somebody is probably watching us.”

Gaby nodded. She stopped at an old bench leaning against a twisted apple tree and with a little hesitation she pushed Illya to sit on it. She stepped close and sat on his thigh; let her hand slide over his shoulders and on his neck. Illya lifted his hand to her waist and pulled her a little closer. The tree covered most of them and if somebody was watching them from the house they would look very close.

“Zoya said somebody doesn’t like that there are new people coming in the company,” Gaby said. “Do you know who she is talking about?”

“Their niece’s husband,” Illya said. “He has been managing the weapons dealing and now I am doing the same. I am not sure what his problem is. It is not like he is Dragomirov himself. He has just made a wise marriage, which apparently is not going so well either.”

“What we should do about him?” Gaby asked, her brows furrowed.

“Vasiliy promised to arrange a meeting with him,” Illya said. “I will talk to him. Reassure him that working together is a good thing, benefits both of us. That I am not going to take his place in this organization.”

“Aren’t you?” Gaby wondered.

“Well, yes,” Illya confessed. “But he does not need to know that.”

“What about me?” Gaby asked.

“What about you?” Illya wondered.

“What will I do?” Gaby wanted to know. “We are getting married; I’m here as much as you. I’m the one making all the plans with Zoya. She observes me as much as Vaska you and they want to see if I’m suitable with them as much as you. Maybe I should come with you to see this husband of some niece. It would look good if you took me with you. I don’t want to be some decoration, I want to be a partner.”

The corners of Illya’s mouth twitched. “You are so determined that I think you would fit nicely here to sell weapons.”

Gaby snorted little. “I’m not really joining a crime family.”

“No,” Illya granted. “But you would fit right in. Should I worry about that?”

Gaby made a little displeased expression on her face so she wouldn’t smile. She set her hand better on Illya’s neck and her fingers tickled his nape.

“You can come with me,” Illya decided. “It will look good that we are both serious about this. They are family; they want us to be too.”

“Are we having sex?” Gaby asked. She had thought about it when she had told about the honeymoon.

“What?” Illya was startled at the sudden change of subject.

“Are we supposedly having sex or are we waiting for the wedding night?” she asked.

Illya frowned when he didn’t quite know what to say.

“If they are following us we need to decide what we are doing,” Gaby pointed out. “Are we staying nights at the same place? Or do you just visit me at evenings and it will be mystery what we do the time you are at my place?”

“It would be traditional to wait until the wedding night,” Illya noted.

“They do like traditions,” Gaby nodded.

“But then we are here because they like to modernize things,” Illya muttered.

Gaby hummed. Illya corrected the position of his legs and took a better hold of Gaby so she didn’t fall during that. Her other arm wrapped behind his neck and they were a little closer to each other.

“Maybe we are having sex but we are trying to give the impression that we are waiting until after the wedding because we think that is what they want. And when we are being followed they know that we are spending nights together but still try to publicly maintain the image that we are not. That will make us look cute and mysterious and Zoya likes that,” Gaby said.

“That is very detailed,” Illya said and glanced at her lips.

“Thank you,” Gaby sighed. She slid her hands up on Illya’s neck and let her fingers submerge in his hair. “Your place, I assume?”

“My place what?” Illya asked and noticed that he had to really concentrate on what she was saying. The only thing he thought about was her touch on his neck, her fingers in his hair.

“We are having sex before marriage in your place, because my bed is very narrow and I’m sure in your bed we fit both in and nobody has to sleep on the floor,” Gaby explained in a soft voice.

“Yes. My place,” Illya agreed.

“Lunch will be ready soon,” Gaby suspected. She took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her lipstick off. They were there kissing after all. She stood up and took Illya’s hand in her own.

 

***

 

Their footsteps echoed from the walls of the small stone church. Inside was cool and damp and Gaby felt the shivers run through her spine immediately. Dragomirov’s had not objected when they had informed them that they would marry in a western church, instead of Orthodox. Gaby assumed it would be a problem, but to her surprise there had been no objection. She didn’t ask if it was because they gave her the freedom to choose her own religion even if she couldn't choose the time nor the place of her own wedding, or if it was that they themselves weren't that religious and didn’t really care. Gaby was just happy it gave the agency some room to get its own people in. And now they walked the aisle of the little church near the mansion.

“White flowers, I think,” Zoya said when she looked around.

Gaby nodded next to Illya.

A woman with a very demure skirt and cardigan approached them. She said she would escort them to see the priest.

“Yes, Reverend Brown and I spoke in a phone and –” Zoya said but was interrupted mid-sentence.

“I am sorry,” the woman said. “But Reverend Brown is not here anymore. He had to suddenly leave to deal with a family emergency.”

Gaby and Illya glanced quickly at each other.

“Reverend Thomas will take you into the vestry,” the woman told. “We were lucky to get him here on such a short notice. He only came yesterday. But don’t worry, he will take good care of you, he is very charming. Everybody already likes him.”

They were guided to the back of the church where Reverend Thomas was already waiting for them. He was sitting behind a big and old wooden desk in his cassock and looked very holy in a very sarcastic manner. He stood up when they walked in. Gaby took a deep breath so she wouldn’t accidentally shake her head or laugh and Illya managed just about to not roll his eyes.

“Mrs. Dragomirov,” Napoleon said with his English accent and took Zoya’s hand. “And the happy couple.”

Gaby smiled as naturally as she could. Illya only stared at him.

“I’m Thomas Ainsbury,” Napoleon introduced himself and gestured everybody to sit. “Reverend Brown unfortunately had to leave on very short notice to attend to a personal matter. I just arrived yesterday, so the congregation is still new to me. But welcome here has been just splendid. Lovely people. I’m sure we will be able to arrange a wonderful wedding here.”

“It’s short notice,” Gaby reminded him.

“We here in the spiritual business have a saying that everything that is meant to happen, will happen, somehow,” Napoleon said cheerfully.

Gaby didn’t know what they said in the spiritual business, she wasn’t sure if Napoleon himself knew either. But Zoya looked happy, and that was the only thing that mattered.

“I would like to hear about the happy couple,” Napoleon said and looked them. “I have noticed that it is easier to choose what to say and which parts of the bible to use when you know the couple. So tell me about yourselves. How did you meet?” he asked grinning.

 

***

 

Gaby and Zoya stood in the aisle, Zoya wrote something down and Gaby mostly nodded and agreed to everything she was saying. Napoleon had displayed the church to them and when he had charmed the Russian woman enough he walked to Illya, who was looking at the paintings in the corner.

“Interesting paintings,” Napoleon said. “They were painted by a local man – “

“How did Waverly agree to this?” Illya interrupted him.

“So you are not interested in the paintings?” Napoleon sighed. “I used all evening to learn about this church. Give me even a chance to try.”

Illya glared at him. “Is this revenge for not getting to be Russian?”

“I’m here because you need somebody like me here,” Napoleon informed him. “She likes me. And she is the one who needs to be content. You two merely need to hold your eye rolls.”

“I understand that we are organizing a wedding and it makes this sort of light,” Illya muttered. “But these people are part of the mafia. They _are_ the mafia. We cannot fool around with them. Gaby and I are in their lives now. We are both being followed and observed until they are sure we are worthy of their trust. This is not a joke. It needs very little that one of us is found in an empty lot somewhere with a tongue cut out.”

“I know that,” Napoleon assured him. “I’m not fooling around. I take my religious services very seriously.”

“And then you say something like that and I do not believe you,” Illya huffed.

“That tells more about your character, really,” Napoleon pointed out. “Everything is going to be fine. Gaby is safe. I assume she is the one you are worried about. I don’t believe it’s yourself.”

Illya looked at the painting and didn’t answer.

“But, as I was saying, the paintings were done by a local artist, Jonathan Lowery,” Napoleon continued and stepped a little away from Illya, and Gaby and Zoya turned to look at him. “Unfortunately, he was a deeply troubled man. Alcoholic and frightfully depressed lost soul, tormented by his inner demons.”

Gaby rolled her eyes and shook her head so slightly that you couldn’t really see it.

“In the end of his life he sought relief from religion and God and testament, and gave all his paintings to the congregation. They are quite powerful; don’t you think? This one represents purgatory and the tormented souls trapped in there. Relatively common subject in Mr. Lowery’s works,” Napoleon told.

“It is very dark,” Zoya said and frowned.

“Luckily we can uplift the mood with a spring wedding and white flowers,” Napoleon said smoothly and Zoya smiled. “Tulips, maybe. And lily-of-the-valleys.”

 

***

 

Gaby dropped her bag on the floor and let Illya take her jacket. They were alone, but the more time they did it the more natural it looked, so Illya took her jacket even when they were alone. She thanked him and wandered around inside the apartment. It was spacious and stylish and Gaby was immediately jealous that Illya was an arms dealer and she only his fiancée who lived in a tiny little place. Practically a hole in a wall. Although after the wedding she would live here too.

“Get yourself comfortable,” Illya said and walked past her to the kitchen.

Gaby glanced at the low and dark furniture in the living-room. His chess board was at the other end of the coffee table and the armchair in front of that was situated closer to the table.

“Do you want something?” Illya asked from the kitchen. “Coffee? Tea?”

“I can have if you are making for yourself. You don’t have to bother only because of me,” Gaby said. She went to peep inside the kitchen and watch Illya running the water. “Are you making tea?” she asked.

“Yes,” Illya answered.

Gaby let him be and turned back to the living-room. She sat in front of the chess board even if Illya was probably already used to sitting there. It was chocolate brown leather and smelled pleasant. She ducked to sniff it closer. It reminded her of the leather upholstery in her car. Her fingers made a nice sound against it. On the walls were big abstract paintings. Everything looked precious and elegant. All the furniture was modern and simple. There was nothing unnecessary or prissy. Only clear surfaces. But still it didn’t look clinical or empty, only deliberately clutter free. Somebody had staged the apartment for Illya’s cover but she was sure that he felt very easy to being there.

When Illya returned he frowned. Gaby took the cup from him and he sat down on the couch and was clearly displeased that Gaby had taken his chair. Still he didn’t say anything about it.

“Do you mind if I watch the news?” Illya asked and stood up to turn the television on.

Gaby was confused. “You want to watch the television?” she asked.

“Only the news,” Illya pointed out.

“I was sure that you hadn’t turned that on once since you moved in,” Gaby said and nodded toward the television.

Illya sat back on the couch and then stood up immediately. He came to Gaby. “That is my chair,” he said. “Could you go to sit on the couch?”

“Are you serious?” Gaby frowned.

“Yes,” Illya said. “This is my apartment and I like to sit there when I watch the news.”

Gaby shook her head slightly but stood up anyway when Illya just stood there and stared at her. She took her tea cup and moved to the couch. It wasn’t as comfortable as the armchair. And it had a weird low armrest which she couldn’t lean on. She didn’t like it.

“Do you have any biscuits?” she asked so she wouldn’t think about the sitting situation.

“I think there are some,” Illya suspected. “Take a plate.”

Gaby found unopened package of biscuits and took two. “I don’t need a plate for two biscuits,” she said and set other on the table and bit into the other.

Illya frowned at the crumbs that dropped on the table but said nothing.

“A gentleman would have let me sit there,” Gaby pointed out as she stirred her tea.

Illya glanced at her. “I am letting you crumble your biscuit there. You can settle to that.”

“Are you going to be this rigid during the marriage too?” Gaby asked and sipped her tea.

“Yes,” Illya said.

“If I had known that I don’t think I would have accepted your proposal,” Gaby remarked dryly but grinned a little when Illya glanced at her. She ate the rest of her biscuit and leaned on the couch arm. “So,” she sighed, “what don’t you want me to do here?”

“Talking during the news,” Illya informed.

“It hasn’t started yet,” Gaby said. “Can I put my feet on the table?”

“No,” Illya denied. He sipped his tea and looked at Gaby, who clearly was serious about wanting to know what he didn’t want her to do. “Fine. Your biscuits need to stay on a plate. Not the table nor the couch. When your cup is empty I would like you to take it to the kitchen. I do not want your empty cups sitting on tables and counters. I like my surfaces clear. I do not want clothes hanging on every chair. No clutter. No empty milk bottles in the refrigerator. No annoying music.”

Gaby waited for a while when Illya stopped talking. She sipped her tea and ate her other biscuit. “Was that all?” she finally asked.

“I think so,” Illya said and looked thoughtful, like he was going over some sort of list in his mind of things he didn’t like in his home.

“Well, there was quite a lot already,” Gaby stated and smiled. She didn’t know when was the last time Illya had lived with another person. Not that they were living together, but she was sure they would spend a decent amount of time under the same roof and in the same bed. The bed didn’t bother her. She hadn’t seen the bedroom, but by the look of the rest of the apartment the bed was going to be nice and wide enough that they didn’t have to touch each other.

And she was right: the bed was nice and wide. Gaby flopped onto it. Illya walked on the same side as she and cleared his throat a bit. Gaby rolled to the other side and wasn’t even annoyed. So Illya liked to do things he had gotten used to. She could understand that. If somebody used her tools in the garage and then put them in the wrong place, she was annoyed.

Illya turned the light off and both of them lay on their own sides. “Do you have a gun with you at all times?” Illya asked after a while.

“Yes,” Gaby answered. “In my purse. Do you think they will check me?”

“No,” Illya said. “Or they might, I don’t know. But that does not matter. You would have a weapon on you. I would insist you to keep it with you. And now I _am_ insisting it.”

Gaby nodded little and frowned. “How much will a gun help me if our cover is blown?”

“Not that much,” Illya admitted. “Let’s hope it does not come to that.”

“Would they ever find our bodies?” Gaby asked quietly.

“I do not think so,” Illya muttered. “Still, keep your gun with you.” Suddenly he regretted that he had said he had a fiancée. Dragging Gaby along was unnecessary. He wanted to push the thought out of his head but he couldn't. He wondered if he made up a fiancée solely so he could have Gaby with him. Illya turned on his side, frustrated. The thought that he himself had put Gaby in unnecessary danger only to spend time with her bothered him. He should’ve known better. If something happened to her, it would be his fault. His stupid selfishness.

“Don’t worry,” Gaby sighed and turned to look at his back. “You are going to be okay. I will look after you,” she assured him.

Illya snorted at her. He was a little annoyed that Gaby had managed to ease his anxiety just when he had decided to sulk on his guilt.

“And they seem like nice people,” Gaby muttered in the dark.

Illya glanced her over his shoulder. “Do not let that fool you. Dragomirov’s did not rise to head of mafia by being nice. They maybe are that, but they are also dangerous.”

“I know that –” Gaby started but a loud knock from the front door interrupted her sentence.

Illya rose to sit. He turned the night lamp on and took his Makarov from the bedside table. He stood up and gestured towards Gaby, who was getting up too.

“You will stay here,” he ordered firmly and went to open the door.

Gaby took her gun from her purse and went to peek from the crack of the door.

Illya opened the front door, gun behind his back. Three men, one of whom he recognized as Yuri Dragomirov, Vasiliy’s youngest son, stood behind the door. Yuri and an another man dragged the third one in the middle of them; his shirt was red with blood.

“Yugoslavians,” Yuri said shortly and they dragged the man over the threshold, inside the apartment. “This was the nearest place. The bullet is still inside him.”

Illya wanted to throw them out, order them to go to a hospital. But he knew that was impossible. He didn’t want a bleeding criminal in his apartment, but it would look bad for their cover if he threw them out.

“We don’t really know what to do,” Yuri said, and he and the other men let the third one slide to the floor near the front door. “Maybe the wound should be burned shut?”

“Are you going to take him hospital later?” Illya asked tightly.

“We can’t. They will ask too many questions. They will contact the police if you go there with a bullet in you,” Yuri pointed out.

“Then there’s no use to burn the wound shut,” Illya informed. “It would help in a case when you don’t want him to bleed before reaching the hospital, but the bullet still needs to come out. Get a towel from the bathroom,” he ordered.

“Me?” Yuri asked, confused. He was Dragomirov and not really gotten used to taking orders from anybody but his parents.

“Yes, you,” Illya huffed. “Get the towel if you don’t want him to bleed to death.” Illya shook his head, frustrated, and knelt on the floor. He pressed the towel Yuri handed him to the wound on the man’s abdomen. “Get a first aid kit from the bathroom’s lower cupboard. And tool box from the cleaning closet. That’s in kitchen. I need pliers,” Illya continued. “How long ago was he shot? Has he been bleeding the whole time or has somebody tried to stop the bleeding?”

“We were trying to stop it in the car –”

“Talk while you get the things,” Illya growled. “Or he can speak,” he nodded towards the other man. “Is this the first time you are dealing with a gunshot wound?”

Yuri left back to the bathroom.

“We usually take the wounded to Tatarov, he is our doctor,” the other man said, speaking for the first time. “But it was too far for us to take him.”

“I didn’t find the first aid kit,” Yuri said when he returned.

Illya irritatedly shouted in English: “Gaby, come here! I need somebody useful!”

Gaby, who was just waiting by the door, threw her gun on the bed and hurried to the living-room.

“First aid kit, bathroom,” Illya said efficiently and didn’t bother to explain more; she would manage, unlike the Dragomirov who stood nearby and didn’t really do anything. “Pliers, cleaning cupboard. I need you to sterilize those.”

Gaby threw the first aid kit to the floor next to Illya and was as efficient as Illya had hoped. She took a vodka bottle with her from the living-room and rushed to the kitchen, yanked the cleaning cupboard open and searched for the pliers. She poured vodka onto the pliers and lighted it on fire from the gas stove. She rushed back to the others and Illya glanced at the still burning pliers she was turning in her hands so she didn't get burned and nodded approvingly.

“The bullet needs to be removed,” Illya said. “Otherwise there is no point of trying to stitch him up.”

Gaby sat on the floor and lifted the pliers towards the wound.

“Maybe one of us should do that,” Yuri said suddenly

“What?” Gaby asked and her hands stopped.

“You do not have to be in here,” Yuri said. “All this blood. It is not suitable for a woman. I can do that.”

“Do you have any idea what you are doing?” Gaby snapped immediately. It’s not like she knew what she was exactly doing, but at least she wasn’t completely useless. “You didn’t seem to have any idea before. Do you think I’m going to faint because there is blood in here?” she demanded, her brows deeply furrowed. “I got news for you; despite your dangerous life, I’m sure I bleed more often than you two idiots combined. And when I bleed I don’t need stitches to survive that,” she huffed and looked at Yuri contemptuously. She wasn't even embarrassed by what she was saying. “I expect to survive at this blood too.”

Yuri was clearly uncomfortable and didn't seem to know where to look on Gaby anymore.

“Maybe you could be useful and go to the kitchen to make some coffee and let me sort this out,” she said firmly and nodded at the man lying on the floor. She turned to look at Illya. “Do you want me to take the bullet out or do you want to do it?”

Illya, who had been watching Gaby, glanced at the Russians who went to the kitchen and then back to her. “Do you really want to do it?” he asked.

Gaby handed the pliers to Illya and pressed her hands on the towel. Illya pushed the pliers as carefully as he could inside the wound. The bullet slipped a few times, but then he got a grip and pulled it out. Gaby pressed the towel back on the wound and Illya dropped the pliers with the bullet on the floor. She lifted the towel so Illya could make a stitch.

“How long he's been bleeding?” Illya asked in Russian.

Yuri reappeared from the kitchen and stayed at the door. “He was shot maybe three quarters of an hour ago,” he estimated.

Illya shook his head and huffed disappointedly. “You should’ve brought him straight away if this was the nearest place,” he said. “And call Vasiliy immediately. I want this mess away from here.”

The other man walked past Yuri and went to the phone.

“Is there any point of stitching him?” Gaby asked quietly.

Illya shrugged his shoulders. “I hope so,” he muttered while he made the next stitch.

Gaby glanced to the kitchen door and frowned. “I can’t believe they actually went to the kitchen when I told them to. They were probably horrified at the things I was saying.”

“You just made two criminals who have probably seen plenty of blood and cruelties for a lifetime to squirm just by talking about blood,” Illya said and glanced at Gaby under his brows. “That is quite Impressive.”

Gaby hummed wonderingly and then frowned. “Why aren’t you squirming?”

“Do you assume that I do not know how female body functions?” Illya asked and made the next stitch.

Gaby shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe,” she admitted. She pressed the towel on the wound when Illya finished the stitch.

“Well, I know,” Illya said. “It is biology, not…” he pondered what word to use, “sorcery.”

Gaby lifted the towel. “Did they teach you at school how the different comrades work?” she smirked.

Illya glanced at her from under his brows. “No. Later. At KGB.”

“Why?” Gaby wanted to know.

“General knowledge,” Illya suspected and made a new stitch. Gaby pressed the towel on the wound. “Maybe they wanted us to know how the different comrades work,” he said and lifted his brows when he looked at Gaby.

She held her smile. “Was there a roomful of squirming men?” Gaby asked.

“Yes,” Illya confessed.

Gaby wanted to smile but she couldn’t when she could see the man and the bloody mess on his abdomen even when she wasn’t looking at it. “He is very pale,” she said out loud even though Illya could see it himself. Gaby set her fingers on the man’s neck and felt his pulse. Illya didn’t ask about it, but he did look at her from under his brows again. “Weak,” Gaby said quietly. She glanced at his hand and the gold wedding band he was wearing. The truth was that all the blood was bothering her. Not as blood itself but something that was running out of the man and killing him slowly. Soon there wouldn't be enough for his heart to pump.

“Vasiliy will also worry you being here among this mess,” Illya said. “Let him fuss and treat you like a fragile girl.”

“Why don’t you?” Gaby asked. She was a little surprised that Illya had himself asked her to come in the middle of this and not once asked was she okay with all the blood.

“I know you are not a girl. You are a grown woman,” Illya said and lifted his gaze to her. “I expected you to say yourself if there is something you cannot handle.”

Gaby nodded slightly. Somehow she felt proud. Illya didn’t precisely say that he trusted her, but it felt like it. She decided to cope. If Illya could get through this without problems, so could she.

“There,” Illya sighed and took his bloody hands off the man. “I cannot do anything else.”

Gaby wiped gently some of the blood around the stitches and both of them looked at the wound. “At least he isn’t bleeding anymore,” Gaby said.

Illya hummed unhappily and stood up. He took a chair next to the coat rack and lifted the man’s legs onto it. He looked at the bloody mess on the hardwood floor. He hoped that the varnish was intact. Otherwise the blood would soak in the grains of the wood and then the floor would have to be changed. There was a knock on the door and he wiped his bloody hands on his thighs; the pajama pants were already messed anyway. He let Vasiliy and three other men inside.

“Illya,” Vasiliy greeted him, brows deeply knitted. “What’s the situation?”

“He’s alive,” Illya said tightly, “barely. The bullet has been removed and the wound stitched.”

Vasiliy nodded and frowned even more when Illya moved and he could see Gaby who was again keeping her fingers against the wounded man’s neck.

“Gaby,” he sighed and changed to English. “You should not be here.”

“No,” Illya interrupted him. His job was to act like a protective fiancé and it wasn’t hard when her hands were stained with blood and she looked upset. “This mess should not be here. Is this how you deal with situations like this? If somebody is hurt do you just bring him to nearest place in middle of the night? I am sure you have your own doctor to deal with things like this. They said there was no time to take him to there, but still it was at least forty-five minutes from the shooting.”

Vasiliy grunted, annoyed, and looked at Gaby and her blood-stained pajamas.

“Is this what we should expect in future?” Illya asked. “Is this something Gaby has to get used to? Bloody mess? Dying people on the floor? Is this how you work? Does Zoya have to see things like this?”

“Of course not,” Vasiliy spoke finally, tense and angry. “This is unheard of and ridiculous. Why did you bring him here?” he grunted and changed back to Russian. He scowled at his youngest son, who emerged from the kitchen. “Why didn’t you bring him to Tatarov? Why he was even shot? Why you were with the Yugoslavs?”

“We went to deal with the situation,” Yuri explained. He sat down and shrugged his shoulders. “We arranged a meeting. But then things didn't go as planned and -”

“Didn’t go as planned?” Vasiliy grunted. “What did you think would happen when you went there? You would just talk things through and that would be it? How can you be so naive to think that?” He shook his head, disappointed. “This is ridiculous. Leave here. Now. I will sort out this mess like I do with all of your messes. Go home!”

Yuri was a grown man and still he blushed from shame like a schoolboy and slipped through the door, his tail between his legs.

“Illya, I’m sorry about this,” Vasiliy said tiredly. “These are the people to whom all of my hard work will be left one day,” he sighed. “That troubles me.”

“I want this mess out of here,” Illya said tightly.

“Of course,” Vasiliy said. “They will take care of it,” he promised and gestured toward the men he had brought with him.

Gaby sighed and stood up. She wiped her hands on her pants and went to Illya and Vaska. “What’s his name?” she asked.

“Verennikov,” Vasiliy answered. “Konstantin Verennikov.”

“Well, you can tell his wife that her husband just died on our floor,” Gaby said. She just managed to deliver it without her voice trembling or cracking. Illya wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her protectively to his side. It felt safe and relieving and Gaby was glad Illya did it. She leaned against him and momentarily let go of her cover and was just herself and seeking comfort from Illya whose hand was warm against her shoulder and whose side it felt good to lean against.

Vasiliy sighed deeply. He turned to the man he had brought along. “Get him out of here,” he ordered calmly and turned back to Illya and Gaby. “Gaby, куколка, you should go wash up. It makes me feel so bad when you are covered in his blood. I will send a cleaning crew tomorrow to sort everything out,” he promised.

“No,” Gaby sighed as calmly as she could and lifted her chin. “We will sort this out by ourselves. I think you have done enough for us for now.” She looked at Illya who nodded to her slightly.

“As you wish,” Vasiliy said. “I am truly sorry about this,” he assured them one more time.

There was crackling of plastic and hollow clunks, but neither Illya nor Gaby turned to see what the men were doing with the body. They both looked at Vasiliy, Illya’s bloody fingers wrapped around Gaby’s shoulder.

“Maybe we will have dinner together tomorrow,” Vasiliy suggested. “And forget all about this.”

“We have plans,” Illya said shortly. He was going to play hard to get. Right now they had little power over him and he was going to use that to gain some more respect. He would make the decisions, not any Dragomirov. “Next week, maybe.”

“That is fine,” Vasiliy nodded, even though he seemed uneasy at a situation where he didn’t make the decisions. He smiled to Gaby, who had blood stains on her chin. “Zoya will be happy to see you too.” For that he got a little nod back from Gaby. “I will see you then.”

Illya let go of Gaby’s shoulder to close the door behind the men. He took a deep breath and only after that turned to look around the room. That hardwood floor was covered in blood. Some of it had clotted almost black. Illya turned to Gaby, who stood there in her stained pajamas and looked back to him. She couldn’t hide her anxiety any more and looked sad. “Are you okay?” he asked, even though he didn’t have to.

“I thought I was a grown woman who says herself if she’s not coping,” Gaby said quietly.

Illya nodded. “Yes. But it does not mean that you are necessarily okay even if you can handle the situation. And after I said that a man died here.”

“I’m fine,” Gaby lied but didn’t try to hide the fact that she was shaken up by all that had happened. Still it was easier to lie than admit that she wasn’t fine. And it didn’t matter, because Illya could see it anyway. She frowned at the bloody floor. “I will visit his wife tomorrow,” she muttered as she stared. “Bring some flowers and tell her that her husband didn’t die alone. She will have comfort from that, I’m sure. And it will make us look good,” she added professionally.

Illya nodded again. “You should go wash up,” he said. Now that they were on their own it was harder not to worry about her. Especially when he saw that she was upset.

“I’ll help,” Gaby said, took a deep breath and moved the already bloody towel with her feet into the blood to absorb it. “We will finish faster together.”

Illya didn’t argue with her. She was right. And also too stubborn to go anyway even if she wanted to.

 


	3. White silk

A sharp knock woke Gaby. She crawled up, still half asleep, and shuffled to open the door. She couldn't understand why Illya was there so early. He knew fully well that she didn’t play well with others so early in the morning. But instead of Illya, Zoya rushed inside, wearing a blue cape and a pillbox hat, and Gaby had to take a step back so she wouldn't fall when she startled her quick entrance.

“доброе утро,” Zoya greeted her cheerfully.

Gaby made a little sound to respond but couldn't manage any actual words.

“I am sorry it is so early. But when there is not much time; we should not waste it,” Zoya said and handed a cream-colored rose bush in a pot to Gaby. “I thought this would remind you of the wedding,” she said when Gaby took the flower.

“Thank you,” Gaby sighed. She could almost feel Illya’s suspicious gaze from his apartment. If the rose bush wasn't bugged she would be surprised. “I don't have any plants. I will try to keep it alive,” she promised and cleared her throat when her words were still husky from sleep. She set the rose on the edge of the shelf.

“Now, this is very compact,” Zoya said smiling when she looked around in Gaby’s tiny apartment.

“Yes,” Gaby agreed. “But I’m not staying here for long.”

“I expect Illya’s apartment to be bigger,” Zoya said.

Gaby nodded. “We will fit both in there.”

“Are you sure you want to stay there?” Zoya asked, looking worried. “Vaska told me what happened. I can not believe Yuri would bring someone dying in there. And you had to be there to see it. It must have been awful.”

“Little,” Gaby said. “But it was nothing I couldn't survive.”

Zoya nodded. “Vaska is so sorry about that. I do not think I have seen him so angry at Yuri since he stole his car when he was thirteen and crashed it against the school’s gate.”

Gaby smiled. “He doesn't have to be sorry,” she assured. “He was very apologetic and I may have been too harsh. All is well.”

“He will be relief for hearing that,” Zoya said and smiled too.

Gaby changes her weight from one leg to another. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked unsure what Zoya wanted.

“We have a appointment with the seamstress,” Zoya told the reason she was there. “Last minute opening. You need to change.”

“Of course,” Gaby sighed and accepted that now she had a appointment and she needed to change. She picked a dress from the wardrobe, went to the bathroom and left the door ajar so she could hear Zoya. “I don’t really care for anything too fancy,” she pointed out. “I could wear dress from a store.”

“Absolutely not,” Zoya said. She picked a scarf and a cardigan from the armchair and sat down.

“Maybe a short dress,” Gaby suggested and brushed her hair. “That would be quite fashionable.”

“You would look lovely in a short dress,” Zoya agreed. “But for a wedding I think long is better. More traditional. Yes, long dress and a veil. That will look lovely.”

Gaby nodded to her own reflection and brushed her teeths. Of course she would wore a long dress and veil. Traditions.

“Maybe lace,” Zoya pondered and Gaby roll her eyes.

When she got herself ready she let Zoya take the lead. They went to the seamstress. She was turned around for measurements. Zoya explained what they wanted and was the one who looked at the fabric samples. Gaby got to take a look, even touch and voice her opinions, but she didn't believe those mattered that much. Sketches were drawn and decisions made. Gaby hadn’t felt more like a doll since Berlin when Napoleon and Illya had dressed her for Rome. Her opinions didn't matter then either. And basically the situation was the same: somebody she really didn't know was dressing her for a situation that wasn't true. It was like playing dress up. Except instead of fashionable design dresses she was going to wear white silk and chiffon and rows of tiny buttons.

 

***

 

Illya frowned when somebody banged on his door so hard that the paintings moved on the walls. He almost staggered when Gaby stormed in.

“Can you believe what has happened?” she snapped.

Illya’s frown smoothed as he closed the door. “I don’t know. You need to tell me first.”

“Don't try to be funny,” Gaby huffed and went to pour herself a splash of vodka. “I woke up when Zoya came by. Eight in the morning. We went to a seamstress. They turned me around, pulled my arms, took measurements. All the decisions were made without asking about my opinion,” she told him, annoyed, and drank her drink and poured another. “Now I'm getting this long wedding gown with ruffles and bows and ribbons. And there’s going to be a veil. I’m going to look ridiculous,” she muttered and paced around.

Illya had to stop when she walked in front of him and slumped on the armchair. Illya picked up the newspaper he had set on the coffee table. He took hold of Gaby’s arm, pulled her up and gently pushed towards the couch.

Gaby glared at him and drank her drink. She sat on the couch and moped. “I suggested a short dress and that we could just buy it. But no. It has to be made for me. And it has to be white and long. And apparently I need to look like a cream cake,” Gaby muttered. “I know they are good people but -”

“They are criminals,” Illya reminded her.

“If you look past that,” Gaby said, frustrated. “But they are so pushy. They need to decide everything. You know, after the seamstress we went to a cafe and Zoya ordered for me. Like I was some child who couldn't order her own pastry,” Gaby huffed and leaned forward and stared at Illya, her eyes wide open and brows lifted high and looked like she was accusing him of something. Illya glanced at her over his newspaper, amused. “Fine, I would've ordered mille-feuille like she did for me, even if it was the speciality. But that’s because I have eaten it before and I didn’t really care for it. And yes, it was really delicious,” she had to admit. “But I wanted to make that decision by myself. She could’ve suggest that and I could've decided if I wanted to order it.”

“So you are upset because you had cake and it was good?” Illya asked.

“I could have been allergic to almonds,” she said tightly and scowled at him. “I could’ve died. Would that amuse you too?”

“Please don't drag me into this,” Illya asked. “I did not order for you.”

“It’s your family,” Gaby sighed, crossing her arms on her chest and leaning back.

“No, they are not,” Illya said.

Gaby shrugged her shoulders. She had started to think like they were. She stood up and paced around lazily. “It bothers me when I can’t make my own decisions.”

“Does it matter?” Illya asked and set the newspaper on his lap. “It is not a real wedding.”

“No. But I don’t know if I will ever get a real one,” Gaby said. “Maybe this is my only wedding. And now somebody else is making all the decisions for me.”

“I am sure you can get a real wedding,” Illya said. “If you want one. I thought you were your own woman.”

Gaby huffed like she was still annoyed because she didn't want to smile and let Illya know that he had made her feel better. She wandered to him, sat on the armrest of his chair. “Of course I am. But that doesn't mean that I wouldn’t marry somebody who let me be my own woman. I can be my own woman and a wife. But not only a wife. I wouldn't do like I did now; stop working because I got engaged. What am I supposed even do when we are married? Go shopping?”

Illya shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, I think.” He watched Gaby, who looked thoughtful. He had always assumed that Gaby wouldn't want to get married. And he had liked that idea. She would be her own woman and therefore she would never be somebody else's and Illya wouldn't have to see her potentially marrying a stranger. But apparently she was ready to marry somebody who would let her be her own woman. Illya would let her be whatever she wanted, but then they weren't really getting married. Maybe they should.

“So you do business and give me money because I don’t have my own and then I just buy myself clothes and shoes and look nice for you when you come home?” Gaby asked.

“Yes,” Illya said and tried to concentrate on what Gaby was saying instead of what his brains were saying. “I think you can have… hobbies.”

Gaby glared at him. “Hobbies?” she sniffed. “I don’t want hobbies. I want to be meaningful.”

“You will be,” Illya assured her. “But as far as this case goes, you have to meaningful at home, with hobbies,” he explained gently.

Gaby sighed and slumped so that her side brushed against Illya’s shoulder. “I’m going to look ridiculous in that dress. White and frilly. When we cut the cake no one will be able to tell me apart from it.”

“I doubt that,” Illya said and the corners of his mouth twitched.

“I would really appreciate if you wouldn’t poke me with a spoon,” Gaby said and glanced Illya.

“I will try my best,” Illya promised and smiled to his newspaper.

***

 

Anatoly Gregov dressed like Vasiliy, but he didn't have his sturdy build nor his easy to approach personality. Gaby met him for the first time and he seemed immediately a hard man to get along with. His wife, Polina, Vasiliy’s niece, was quiet and pretty. Gaby smiled at her every time their eyes met over the dinner table at the private room of a restaurant. Illya had said that their marriage was in trouble and Gaby didn't find it hard to believe.

The mood was uptight from the start. Next to Anatoly’s rigidness even Illya seemed relaxed. But he wasn't, he merely covered it well. Gaby could see his tension in his posture and the constant state of readiness he seemed to be in. Anatoly being tense made Illya tense and Illya’s tension made Gaby tense. Polina seemed uneasy before she even met them. When the dinner came Gaby was happy to have something to do with her hands. Illya poured wine into her glass and then Polina’s glass, which seemed to bother Anatoly. Gaby was sure that the meeting didn’t affect anything. Anatoly wouldn't just calm down after one dinner together.

“We are in the same position,” Illya said. “Working together is the best we can do and if -”

“We are not in the same position,” Anatoly interrupted him, bored, and cut his steak to pieces almost violently. “I am part of the family. You are outsider.”

“You are not Dragomirov either,” Illya pointed out bluntly even when he  had already decided to be calm and courteous. But Anatoly was acting in a way that made him want to hear his bones crack.

“I am married to a Dragomirov,” Anatoly grunted and cut his steak.

Gaby watched him. She found it suspicious that a grown man would cut his steak in pieces before taking a first bite. He acted like a parent who cut food for a child, and then like the child when he finally started to eat without using his knife anymore.

“I am family,” Anatoly insisted.

Illya lifted his brows quickly and hummed to show that he was disagreeing but was not going to fight with him.

Anatoly’s jaw tightened. He squeezed his cutlery. “I have been involved in this for years,” Anatoly said. “You can not smoke me out like that.”

“I am not doing that,” Illya lied. Before, he had known he needed to get a foothold by removing somebody from his way, but now it had become personal. “I am merely suggesting that we will work together. Everybody benefits from that.”

“I don't care about your benefits,” Anatole grunted so that saliva flew from his mouth. “I do not trust you.”

Illya sighed and cut his steak calmly. Gaby drank her wine and he poured her more.

“I am sorry for that,” Illya said. He noticed that Anatoly clearly disapproved of him filling Gaby’s glass the second time. Polina had hardly touched her wine. “Is there something I can do to change that?”

Anatoly huffed and looked as if he was smelling something bad all the time. “I don't know how you have fooled the old man to trust you. Sad bastard probably just wants your German woman,” he sniffed and glanced at Gaby.

Illya’s jaw tightened.

“But I can see through your act,” Anatoly announced proudly. “You are a fraud. You are not what you claim to be. And I know why you are here.”

Gaby glanced quickly at Illya. He looked serious, but showed nothing else.

“And why am I here?” Illya asked. His fingers moved; he prepared to take out his weapon. He would shoot Anatoly, but Polina seemed like she wouldn't do much more than panic, so she could live. He would shoot him in middle of his chest, color his suit with his blood.

Anatoly sighed like he was bored with explaining himself. “You are trying to take the old man's place in the organisation,” he said and Gaby and Illya both relaxed a little. Illya’s fingers calmed and he stopped looking for the perfect spot to aim on his chest.

“I understand how hierarchy works,” Illya said and returned to his meal. “For some reason I expected you to be intelligent enough to know how it works too,” he continued and Anatoly scowled at him under his brows. “Even if I was aiming for the top there are many men in the way better suited for that. I hope you are not imagining you being one of them.”

Anatoly dropped his cutlery on the plate. The metal clinked sharply against the porcelain. He lifted his hand and pointed at Illya with his finger. “You do not know anything about this family,” he grunted angrily. “You don't know about my position.”

“I know you are in charge of a very small part of the business. The profit in the best case would be marginal,” Illya said dryly. “Whether you profit or not is not really affecting anything. And according to my calculation, there has been not much of a profit. I think the only reason you are still in your position is sitting right next to you,” Illya pointed out and turned then to Polina. “Are you enjoying your meal?” he asked softly and in a friendly tone.

“It takes time to start something new. I was the one who suggested we should take our portion from the weapon markets. It is still new business for us,” Anatoly claimed before Polina managed to open her mouth.

“Eight years is quite a long start, don't you think?” Gaby asked. “One should expect some development in that time.”

“You keep your woman in line,” Anatoly hissed and pointed at Gaby. “Or I will do it for you.”

Illya’s body tensed up and Gaby set her hand over his wrist, settled on the edge of the table. Illya glanced at her hand, took a deep breath, and turned back to face Anatoly. “Could you lower your hand and stop pointing at my fiancée?” he asked too tightly to be polite. “If you speak to her again like that, I will break your neck.”

Anatoly lowered his hand but kept scowling at them.

Gaby leaned a little closer to Illya, hand still gently on his wrist. “I’m not going to stop you, Liebchen,” she said in German and Illya’s face softened.

Anatoly was seemingly annoyed. He clearly wanted to point out something about Gaby being a German but he looked cautious. Maybe he really believed that Illya would break his neck. Gaby noticed him eyeing her hand on Illya’s wrist. With Vaska and Zoya he must have gotten used to seeing how easily she guided her husband how she liked. Maybe he was afraid that Gaby was giving Illya orders for him. And basically he was right.

Polina got up almost silently and slipped out of the room. Gaby and Illya looked after her but Anatoly seemed to hardly even notice his wife leaving.

“Excuse me,” Gaby said and set her napkin on the table and stood up. “Don't let him annoy you too much,” she said to Illya again in German and smiled. She set her hand on his shoulder and slowly slid it down his arm.

Illya let Gaby slide her hand until it reached his hand. He took hold of her hand and lifted it to kiss her fingers. “Ich versuche,” Illya answered her.

Gaby felt like glaring at Anatoly but in the end she decided it was more effective to not pay any attention to him and only notice Illya. He let her fingers go and Gaby left the room. She went to the ladies room and stood in front of the mirror powdering her nose. She combed her bangs with her fingers, touched up her lipstick and waited for Polina. Finally she came to the mirror, opened the faucet and washed her hands.

“You do not have to stay,” she said suddenly.

Gaby hadn't expected her to speak. She was going to say something to her, she just hadn't decided yet what. “It would be silly to leave before the dessert,” Gaby said and smiled a little but didn't get a smile back.

“This life,” she said. “You do not have to stay. You are not tied to anything yet. You can still choose something else.”

Gaby hummed briefly. “I know,” she said and closed her lipstick. “But I have made my decision.”

“At least you had a decision to make,” Polina muttered and seemed sad and hurt. “I was already in. I was born for this. Then I made the mistake of marrying somebody I now wish I had not,” she continued quietly. “And now I am nothing. I am a Dragomirov and I am nothing.”

“Don't say that,” Gaby said. “Zoya says that you paint,” she tried to made a connection.

“It is nothing,” Polina hissed between her teeth. “Something to kill time. Zoya is the only one who has had any sense. She interferes constantly in Vaska’s business, arranges things and keeps everything moving. That is how it should be. You do not want to end up like me; sitting bored, buying clothes, going to a cafe. If you have any sense in you, you will leave from this life or you will work with your husband. Otherwise you are nothing more than an ornament; a porcelain doll on a shelf.”

Gaby nodded. “You could still work with him,” she suggested carefully.

Polina made a little unhappy laugh. “No. No, I can’t. He has made it very clear how worthless I am. He is so… mean. And cruel,” Polina huffed, frustrated, like there was a storm inside of her that she was trying to keep caged. “And even with a new liberated world things have not changed that much. Not for us. When you have married someone you are married. End of story. There is no going back.”

Gaby frowned when she closed her handbag.

“Be sure what you want before you say ‘I do’ in front of everybody,” Polina said and looked at Gaby. Her eyes were sad and tired. “Don’t make my mistakes.” She lowered her gaze and slowly ripped the damp paper towel in her hands into pieces. “He had so much potential. That is why I agreed to marry him. But then he did not ever really fulfill that potential,” she said bitterly.

“He still might,” Gaby said.

“No.” Polina shook her head and stared through her hand and showed no emotions. “He is not capable of that. Everybody can see that and he knows it. And instead of dealing with it like a man and accepting that he is making everybody suffer with him, he acts like a mean child.” Polina turned angrily back to Gaby. “Sometimes I wish I could be braver. I wish I could stab him in the middle of the night. Carve his face off. Sometimes I stand next him in the dark when he sleeps. I think about it with the knife in my hand but my courage fails me every time. I am afraid that he will wake up and mock me.”

Gaby didn't know what to say. She watch Polina throw away the paper towel and then followed her back to the private dining room. The mood had stayed tense.

“Are we ordering dessert?” Illya asked. “Gaby?”

“Yes, please,” she said.

“Polina?”

“She doesn't need,” Anatoly said firmly. “We are leaving,” he announced and got up. 

Polina glanced at Gaby with a little apologetic smile on her face.

“You can take care of the check,” Anatoly said and guided Polina out ot the room.

Illya sighed. “This was useless,” he muttered.

“I think Polina would talk if somebody would ask the right questions at the right time,” Gaby suspected. They paused the conversation when waiter came and they ordered dessert as they had planned. “I don't know how much she knows. Maybe something about Anatoly’s business.”

“Could you get her to talk?” Illya asked.

Gaby pouted her lips. “Well, she has lot to say. She is lonely and needs somebody to listen to her and pay attention. Someone who doesn't judge her and treats her like a person. I can try,” she promised. The desserts arrived and Gaby cracked the sugary surface on her crème brûlée with her spoon and glanced at Illya. “What about Anatoly? What we are doing about him?”

“He is going to be trouble,” Illya said, annoyed. “We should get rid of him.”

“Polina sometimes stands next to him at night and tries to build the courage to stab him in the face,” Gaby said in very trivial manner and Illya looked at her like he didn’t know if she was serious. “Maybe she will take care of him for us,” she said and shrugged her shoulders.

 

***

 

Vasiliy leaned to fill Gaby’s glass and she rewarded him with a smile. As a counterbalance for them playing hard to get a few days time and declining any plans saying they were busy, Gaby and Illya had been very friendly the whole evening. Gaby smiled constantly to Vasiliy, laughed at all of his jokes, even the really bad ones. Vasiliy was in a good mood which made everybody feel comfortable, even Illya was trying his best. They were again almost like a part of the family, dining as a big group in a Russian restaurant.

“Valentina Olegovna told how much she appreciated you visiting her,” Zoya said smiling. “She got lot of comfort from your words.”

“It was the least I could do,” Gaby said and flicked her hand like it was nothing.

“So thoughtful,” Zoya continued and turned to Illya. “You did right when you followed her on the street. She will make a very efficient wife.”

Gaby turned to look at Illya and grinned smugly, which amused him. He didn't know who Gaby had met but still took happily all the credit for her thoughtfulness. When the rest of the party were talking he leaned closer to Gaby. “Who is Valentina Olegovna?” he muttered.

“Konstantin Verennikov’s widow,” Gaby whispered. “The man who died in your apartment. I visited her, like I said I would. Every other wife was going to. It would've been rude not to go. Especially when the man died when I was there.”

Illay nodded when he remembered Gaby telling him that she would visit.

“She was happy to hear that her husband died peacefully and that someone was there to hold his hand,” Gaby said quietly.

“Did you hold his hand?” Illya muttered.

“I said I did,” Gaby explained softly. “And I told her that his last words were about her and how much he loved her.”

Illya lift his brows. “Don't you think it is cruel to lie about that?”

“How?” Gaby wondered. “I was the only one with him when he died. No one can argue with that. And she was happy for hearing that. What harm could that be?” Gaby continued and glanced at the rest of the party and did they still get to whisper in peace, heads close together like they were sharing some intimate secrets that were meant for only their ears. “I brought her some flowers and vodka. And a condolence from both of us. I said you would’ve come too but you were busy dealing with the Yugoslavs.”

Illya glanced at Gaby’s little smug expression. “Was that all you lied? And why vodka? I think it is custom to bring food.”

“No one wants to eat when they are sad. And I don't cook,” Gaby whispered. “But everybody knows drinking helps. And she is Russian. It was obvious choice.”

“Zoya is right,” Illya said and the corners of his mouth twitched. “You are going to make very efficient wife.”

Gaby hummed pleased and sipped her wine to cover her smile. It would’ve been easier to feel herself as a spy if the evening wasn't so pleasant. There was friendly family bickering happening around them and Gaby hadn't really gotten used to something like that. Now it was there and it was nice and homely. The food was good and Illya’s little smile warmed her more than the wine. When they left from the restaurant Gaby and Illya fell behind the crowd, walking slowly, Gaby holding on Illya’s arm. There was no need to make an effort, it was easy. The air smelled like a spring.

No one noticed the dark car with lights out approaching slowly. They only noticed when the Yugoslavs rolled down the windows and the first bullet swished through a silencer and broke a window in a nearby car.

Illya yanked Gaby down behind the car quickly and kept his arm between her and the car so she didn’t hit her head when she crashed against it. The windows broke above them and pieces of glass rained on their hair. Illya let go of Gaby and took his gun out. He tried to take a look, but a bullet hit the headlight of the car they were behind and he pulled back to cover. Gaby took her gun out of her purse and looked to her sides. She couldn’t say if anybody was hurt. At least no one was crying.

The Russians started to shoot back and then suddenly there were bullets everywhere.

“We are shooting from two different directions,” Illya said and didn’t understand how the Russians could do that. They were behind the cars on the sidewalk but the bullets that hit the dark car in the street were also coming from behind the car.

Gaby craned her neck to take a look and gasped when Illya yanked her down. “Stay down.”

“I can help,” Gaby said.

“You can help by staying down,” Illya said firmly and took another magazine from his pocket.

Gaby frowned and when Illya was occupied she leaned to take a peek from the side of the car. The dark car was still on the street. But also a few men were there, suits on, guns in their hands. Bullets seemed to fly from every direction and the soft swishing sound they were making sounded dangerously harmless. They didn't sound like a potential killers.

Illya peeked at the street. He had a perfect line to the men in suits.

Gaby frowned and pulled back behind the car. She realised she knew one of the men, and yanked Illya’s sleeve, making him lose his balance and lower his gun.

“What?” he hissed, unhappy about the distraction.

“I know them,” Gaby said quickly. “They are our agents.”

Illya gazed at the street. In the corner of his eye he saw Vasiliy looking at him and Gaby. He saw that Illya had a straight line to shoot. Illya didn't have a choice. The dark car finally sped off down the street, bullets still coming from the shot-out windows. Illya fired first towards it, then he had to aim the men who were now on the street without any cover. He couldn't let Dragomirov’s see him hesitating. He gritted his teeth, aimed and shot three times; quickly and accurately and dropped all three men. He pulled back behind the car and nodded to Vasiliy who helped Zoya up and the Russians started to move along a narrow alley on to the next street, away from the broken windows and bullet holes on the side of the cars. Somebody had probably called the police already.

“We need to go,” Gaby said and crawled up. Her legs felt shaky but adrenaline made her work even when she was scared. She turned around so she didn't have to see the agents lying on the street. She didn't want to think about them right now. Illya stood up and took a hold on her arm and pulled her along.

“I will stay here. You will take the car,” Illya said when they reached the next street. “Go to my apartment,” he ordered and handed the car keys to Gaby.

She nodded and looked around. Everybody was shocked, looking around at each other. Vasiliy ordered somebody to drive Zoya home and keep her company. Gaby knew it would be weird if Illya let her leave without a kiss and it would be weird if she let him stay without one. Gaby took the keys from Illya and looked at him. Adrenaline was making her heart pound in her chest. “We would kiss,” she said without thinking about it too much.

“I know,” Illya said and was just fine with it. All the adrenaline made every decision easy and efficient; he should stay, Gaby should leave, they should kiss.

It wasn't the first time they were in this situation. They had almost kissed before, but only ever almost. And from the start of the mission they had knew it was happening now, at the church at the latest. And both had been silently somewhat nervous about it. But now there was no nervousness. There was adrenaline which made everything effortless. It pushed away all hesitation and insecurity which would’ve shown as awkwardness to the others. They needed to look natural. And now the unusual situation and chemicals pumping in their bodies made it look like they had done it hundreds of times before. It was only a matter of stepping close to each other and kissing. Illya’s hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her close, Gaby rose on her tiptoes.

Illya was sure Gaby was the one who opened her lips against his and Gaby was sure it was Illya. Gaby’s hands slid on Illya nape, her fingers touched his hair. Illya’s hand on the small of Gaby’s back kept her firmly against him. It was warm and soft. Gaby sighed and didn't even realize it when Illya’s tongue touch her lower lip. 

Slowly they pulled away from the kiss. Illya cleared his throat quietly and Gaby caught her breath.

“Be careful,” Illya muttered and when his lips brushed against her lips he realized he needed to let go of her.

Gaby nodded and let her heels touch the street. She pulled her hands back to herself from Illya’s neck. “You too,” she sighed and wasn't sure was it disappointment she felt when she had to step away from him. 


	4. Trouble in paradice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a picture, because that is what I do. 
> 
> [Something borrowed, something red ](http://edenforest.tumblr.com/post/147345094465/something-borrowed-something-red-by-edenforest)

Gaby paced on the living-room floor. She was anxious and checked the clock on the wall every thirty seconds. She sat on the couch and then stood up again because she was too restless to stay down. She waited for Illya to come back and every minute that ticked by and didn’t bring him back made her more anxious.

There was no reason to worry, she knew that. She hadn't left and let Illya stay behind in the middle of flying bullets. That had already stopped. Gaby knew that Illya stayed because something had to be done with the Yugoslavs, some sort of plan had to be formed. And she didn't like to worry. Illya would be fine even if the situation was more dangerous. He was built to survive. And yet she worried.

Quickly Gaby looked at the clock again and sat down. She noticed her tights had broken at the knee. Probably during the shooting. She yanked the tights off and threw them away, decided to make tea, filled the kettle but then left it on the counter and went back to the living-room. She stood still, her bare feet on the soft carpet, and glanced at the clock.

 

***

 

Illya saw his car at the curb and his anxiety eased; Gaby had done what he had asked and was safe. He went in, didn't want to wait for the elevator, and took the stairs. He walked in and Gaby stood up from the couch so quickly he was sure she was staring at the door. Illya caught his breath and closed the door behind him, bought himself some time before facing Gaby. He wanted to give her a hug, feel her close to him to make sure she really was safe and sound. Instead he walked slowly to the living-room and sat on edge of the cabinet and just look at her.

Both of them had froze still in their spots, looking at each other.

“I am sorry I got you involved in this,” Illya said quietly and lowered his gaze. He had thought about it before; several times, but now he needed to say it out loud when she was safe after something he had put her through. “It was not necessary to say I had a fiancée. I shouldn't have said that. There was no real need to get you involved. I am sorry.”

Gaby hummed tiredly. “You didn't know what was going to happen,” she reasoned. “With the Yugoslavs,” she sighed and shook slightly her head, “or with the agency. Why there even was another team?”

“I don't know,” Illya said. “This feels like a stupid mistake. Something only an amateur would do,” he muttered. “The whole agency acts like idiots. Me, the other team, everybody.”

“I’m happy you said you had a fiancée,” Gaby assured.

Illya huffed and crossed his arms on his chest. “Are you enjoying this? People getting shot? People dying?”

“Of course not,” Gaby said tightly and went to Illya, stopped in front of him. “But without me you would be here alone,” she said quietly.

“I would cope,” Illya said. He felt stupid accusing Gaby of liking the violence. She didn't even get mad, she was only kind.

“I know,” Gaby sighed. She stepped closer and straightened Illya’s tie. She frowned when she realized how silly that was and started slowly open it instead. Illya let his arms relax and set them on the edge of the cabinet. “It doesn't mean I like it,” she continued. “It's better to be together. Right?” She lifted her face and looked at Illya. “Maybe you would prefer me to be somewhere else but that is too late now; I’m here. Now we just keep each other safe, maintain our cover. We are a team, we will get this through together.”

Illya nodded and looked at her. He liked how calm she was despite being scared. “Team.”

“Are you okay?” Gaby asked carefully and her hands stopped on his tie.

“Yes,” Illya said. “It is not the first time someone has shot at me.”

Gaby tilted her head. She almost lifted her hand to touch his cheek, but hesitated and then decided not to do that. “You shot three agents down. And we don’t know what happened, did they survive. You are hiding it well but I know it’s bothering you. I can feel it,” she said and looked at his shoulders. “You are all tense and stiff.”

Illya had to lower his gaze from Gaby again. It was weird when somebody saw what he was feeling. Gaby pulled the tie slowly off his neck. The feeling of it sliding away felt nice, like her hand was stroking his neck.

“It was not the first time either,” Illya muttered.

“That doesn't mean you can’t be upset about it,” Gaby noted. She was standing already so close that when she felt like kissing his cheek she merely leaned forward and did it before she hesitated. “I will make you some tea. That will warm you up,” she promised and wrapped the tie around her hand.

Illya watch her wrapping the tie and frowned. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Putting your tie away,” Gaby said.

“That is not how I keep them,” Illya said. “There is a hanger. That way it is going to wrinkle.”

“Only the narrow end,” Gaby pointed out. “Who would know?”

“I would know,” Illya said seriously.

Gaby held her smile. “Of course you would,” she said gently and cared for him so much it almost made her cry. Gaby let the tie roll open and she set it on the armrest of the couch. “I’m going to make that tea.”

Illya watched as she went. He didn't need tea to warm him, her compassion warmed enough. But he wasn't going to stop her for making that tea if she wanted to do that for him. He liked that, the attention she gave. He glanced at the tie on the armrest and then at Gaby who suddenly returned.

“On second thought I’m going to put this away now because otherwise you are just going to stare at it,” Gaby said and lifted her brows to say that she found it simultaneously weird and amusing.

Illya crossed his arms again and tried to be bothered by Gaby’s teasing. It didn't work, he didn’t mind it. “There is an empty space for it,” he instructed.

“I’m sure there is,” Gaby chuckled in the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. He put the tie on the hanger with five others and closed the door. “What do you do if you buy a new tie?” she asked when she walked across the living-room to finish the tea in the kitchen. She took cups from the cupboard and waited for the kettle to whistle. “Your hanger is full. I’m sure you have a rule that there can't be two ties on top of one another.”

Illya came to lean on the kitchen doorframe. “I will get rid of one if I have a new one. I am sure Cowboy would disagree but no one could possible need more than six ties. That is enough. No, that is already too much.”

Gaby smiled. “So you own, in whatever the situation is, six ties?”

“Yes,” Illya said.

“That is very organized,” Gaby praised smiling and poured water into the teapot. She set the kettle on the counter and wondered: “what about my tie?”

“What tie?” Illya asked although he knew exactly what Gaby was talking about.

“I bought you one from the souvenir shop,” Gaby reminded. “From Hawaii. I’m sure you remember.”

Illya frowned uneasily. “You bought it as a joke,” he said. “It had pink flowers and palm trees.”

“Yes,” Gaby said like she didn’t understood why he was making it sound like a bad thing. “It was a great tie. It wasn't there.” Gaby stopped what she was doing and squinted her eyes. “Illya,” she exhaled and made it sound accusing. “Did you get rid of the tie I bought you?”

Illya sighed and look away. “It…”

“It what?” Gaby demanded.

“It was not a good tie,” he said and shrugged his shoulders. “Very flashy.”

“Colourful and fun,” Gaby claimed. “I can’t believe you threw that away. I bought that for you. It took a long time to choose that tie.”

“Because they were all ugly,” Illya said. “It is only a tie.”

“It was a gift from me,” Gaby pointed out, hurt. She poured the tea, took the cups and walked through the door and Illya stepped out of her way. “Would it be so hard to act like a normal person and keep a gift somebody chose for you out of the kindness of their heart instead of getting rid of it because you have a strict six-tie maximum?”

“It was ugly,” Illya huffed and was getting annoyed. “I would not use it if it was the only one I owned.”

Gaby turned to scowl at Illya, bumped against the armchair, and the tea splashed all over the coffee table, the white carpet, and her blouse. She set the cups on the wet table and grasped her blouse. “Look what you did,” she snapped.

Illya glared at her and went to get a towel from the kitchen. Gaby followed him and glared back when Illya returned to the living-room. She pulled the shirt off her and murmured little angry German courses. She went to the sink and rinsed the blouse under running water. She liked this blouse and didn't want the stain to set. Illya returned to rinse the towel and pushed her aside from the sink. She scowled at him and continued with her shirt.

“There is going to be a stain on the carpet,” Illya announced from the living-room and sounded annoyed.

“What do you care?” Gaby huffed. “It’s not your carpet.”

“I am sorry that all of us don't want to live in the middle of chaos,” Illya said tightly.

Gaby threw her blouse on the counter and marched into the living-room. “I don't live in the middle of chaos.” Suddenly she was angry. All the shock from the shooting erupted out of her as rage.

“I did not said that,” Illya pointed out rigidly and threw the towel on the coffee table. He knew his anger had nothing to do with Gaby but she was there and annoyed him on purpose.

“That’s what you meant,” Gaby accused. “We can’t all be uptight like you. Everything can’t always be in order.”

Illay huffed and shook his head. His gaze wandered. Gaby stood in front of him wearing nothing but skirt and underwear, her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “Go put your shirt on,” Illya ordered.

“Why? Do you have trouble concentrating?” Gaby almost mocked him. “Too much bare skin for you,  _ Liebchen _ ?”

“I don’t have a problem,“ Illya huffed. “But you are making a fool out of yourself.”

“You’re the fool here,” Gaby snapped and was fully aware how stupid she was sounding.

“I am a professional. I can handle a woman in underwear,” Illya said tightly. “This is doing nothing for me. You could be furniture.”

Gaby frowned and her face tensed up, mouth pressed in a tight line. She didn't need Illya to want her but what he was saying only made her angrier because she knew it wasn’t true. “Is that so?” she huffed. “You seem to have trouble choosing where to look. And you didn't act like I was furniture when we kissed,” she announced arrogantly and knew it was a low blow.

Illya shook his head bemused but maintained his tightness. “What you are talking about? We needed to kiss. I did not make that decision.”

“You used your tongue,” Gaby said and lifted her chin and brows and glared at him down her nose as much it was possible.

“No, I didn't,” Illya grunted.

“Yes, you did,” Gaby hissed and pointed a finger at him. “And you know it.”

“I can’t believe we are fighting about something like this,” Illya huffed. “This is ridiculous.”

“Well, you started it,” Gaby accused.

Both startled when someone knocked on the door. They stopped and stared at the door and when they turned back to each other they realized that they were standing so close to one another Gaby had to take a step back so it was easier to look at him.

“Go put your shirt on,” Illya said and Gaby nodded. She buttoned it quickly and hoped that whoever was behind that door didn't look so close that they could see the wet patch on the front of it. She nodded again when she got the shirt tucked back into her skirt and Illya opened the door.

Yuri Dragomirov stepped over the doorstep but didn’t enter farther into the apartment. “I hope I am not bothering,” he said in English and continued in Russian. “Father wanted you to have these,” he said and handed papers to Illya. “He said there was no rush, but you know, he meant immediately anyway.”

Illya nodded.

Yuri glanced at Gaby, who looked displeased, and didn’t know if it was because of him or something else. Her arms were crossed on her chest. “Father made it clear not to upset your fiancée any more after the shooting,” he muttered.

Illya turned to look at Gaby. He lifted his brows, and when Gaby only squinted her eyes at him he gritted his teeth and huffed annoyed. Gaby glared at him but turned around and marched to the bedroom and slammed the door behind her as hard as she could.

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Yuri said.

“Unfortunately It is not you,” Illya muttered.

 

***

 

Unhappy Gaby flopped on the bed. She was annoyed that she had been sent away. She know it was because Vaska liked to think of her as a fragile doll but it still annoyed her. She fingered her engagement ring with her thumb and chewed her lower lip. 

After her mood calmed she lifted her hand so she could see the ring, held it close to her face. It gleamed in the dim light coming from the lamp on the bedside table. It was on her finger now. Before it had been in Illya’s mother's finger. She had worn it when she had got engaged or maybe only after the wedding, Gaby wasn’t sure. She had probably been full of hopes and dreams and now it made Gaby sad. She didn’t know much of his parents, but in her mind Illya had got his physique from his father and his colouring from his mother. Gaby was sure she had been blonde and blue eyed, Illya probably had her cheekbones or lips.

Gaby was sure she had been happy at her wedding day. And then Illya had been born and a little boy was probably what she had wanted to give her husband. She had lived all that with the ring on her finger, with all that happiness, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was heading their way.

She let her hand set on her stomach. She wondered if Illya’s mother would have liked her if they had ever met. If she was alive and this engagement was real, would she approve of her? Defector and mechanic. Somebody who would prefer a shop-bought wedding dress and couldn’t really cook for her husband. Gaby frowned. Maybe she should learn how to cook.

The front door shut, Yuri had left. Gaby waited to see if Illya would come to the bedroom. Slowly she got off the bed and changed into her pajamas and returned to lie down. She gazed at her ring and wondered if she and his mother would’ve been friends at the same age.

Illya didn’t come and it bothered Gaby. She didn’t know if it was because he was still angry or miffed. Or was he only avoiding an awkward confrontation and was waiting until she fell asleep and come in only then. All the options sounded stupid to Gaby, just like their fight.

She got up, sneaked into the living-room and stopped next to the couch. Illya sat on the armchair and went through some papers.

“Did you came to continue?” he asked, tiredly.

“No,” Gaby said. “I came to apologize.”

Illya looked at her, still a little careful.

“So, I’m sorry,” Gaby sighed. “That was a stupid argument. I said stupid things. I didn’t really mean any of it.” She didn’t look at him. It was easier to talk when she didn’t.

Illya nodded. “It is okay,” he said. “I am sorry too. Stupid things. It was a long night.”

It was Gaby’s turn to nod. She walked to him and sat on the armrest like she had started to do. “What are those?” She pointed at the papers Illya was holding.

“Their information about the Yugoslavians. Vasiliy sent these,” Illya explained. “He has decided to meet their head. They are going to talk,” he sighed.

“Do you think it’s a bad plan?” Gaby asked.

“Yes,” Illya said. “Meetings, agreements. It is pointless. They,” he carried on but paused.  “ _ We _ should strike back,” he continued. “Wherever it would cause the most disturbance among them.”

Gaby frowned. “Like in the one in charge?” she suggested.

Illya looked at her and sighed frustrated. “See, even you know where it would cause most trouble. But Vasiliy is so attached to the ridiculously old fashioned way of doing things. He wants to arrange meeting beforehand, deal things with honor. There is no honor in war. He acts like some medieval king; makes schedules for battles. That is not how you win. Especially when the Yugoslavs know this is what he likes to do and they don’t do that.”

“What would you have done in the medieval times?” Gaby asked even when she roughly knew Illya’s answer.

“I would make plans for battle,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “And then night before I attack the enemy camp, I would kill people in their beds, burn down everything I didn’t need to keep.”

Gaby nodded. That was what she had expected from him. He wouldn’t have been a king or even a commander. But if he had gotten the chance to rise to lead the soldiers, Gaby was sure Illya would’ve burned enemy camps to the ground and won battles. Victories would’ve covered him with the blood of his enemies. Gaby kind of liked that image.

“I’m going to bed,” she said and stood up. At the bedroom door she stopped and turned to look at Illya. “You should come too, stop thinking about this now and get some sleep.”

Illya lifted his eyes from the papers to Gaby and nodded.

She crawled under the duvet and waited for Illya to come in before turning her night lamp off. They lay still, each on their own sides.

“I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” Illya said after a while and sounded if not nervous then a little embarrassed. “I hope it was not too bad.”

“What?” Gaby wondered and turned her face towards him.

“The kiss,” Illya said.

“Oh,” Gaby sighed, “right.” She remembered yelling about that too. “It’s okay, forget about it. I was angry and said whatever came into my mind. It was good kiss,” she said softly. “Professional kiss,” she corrected quickly. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

Illya nodded.

Gaby’s fingers touched her ring again. “How long were your parents married?” she asked.

Illya turned his face towards Gaby and looked at her as much he could see in the dark. “About twelve years.”

“I don’t know anything about them,” she said. “Were they happy?”

“I think so,” Illya said. “But I was a child. I can’t be sure. To me they seemed happy.”

“How long after…” Gaby didn't finish her sentence. She tried to find different way to ask. “How long it was just you and your mother?”

“Three years,” Illya breathed out. “Three and a half.”

“Were you struggling?” Gaby asked carefully. “Financially?”

“Yes,” Illya confessed.

“I think they were happy,” Gaby said quietly.

“What makes you say that?” Illya asked.

“She probably would’ve got a decent price for the ring,” Gaby said and tried to squint at it in the dark. “Still she didn’t sell it. She held on to it.”

Illya hummed. He had never thought about it like that. He felt a lump in his throat but was still happy Gaby had said it.

“Good night,” she whispered.

“Good night,” Illya said quietly back. He watched Gaby’s hand over the duvet. The gleaming ring was barely visible. He let his gaze move to her face and closed his eyes. He knew they were only pretending but seeing the ring on somebody's finger felt good. Better than it should have. He hadn't thought he could see anybody wearing it, not really. And now Gaby wearing it only for a cover made him want to pull her in his arms and against him. He wanted to take her hand in his own and kiss her fingers like he had done in the restaurant. He wanted to feel her close to him. Instead he turned his face away. He couldn't really do that. Not even when in the dark bedroom it felt like the only logical thing to do.

Gaby could sense Illya’s tenseness from the other side of the bed. He was too still to be relaxed. She was sure it had something to do with what they had just talked about. She rolled on her side, towards him, moved her hand and set it on his arm.

Illya didn't turn to look at her or her hand . He knew her eyes were closed. He know the ring gleamed on the hand that was touching him. “I did not throw away the tie,” he confessed quietly. “But I don’t wear it so it does not need to be on the hanger.”

“It’s okay,” Gaby muttered and Illya could hear her smile out of her voice.

“It is still an ugly tie,” Illya sighed and Gaby nudged his shoulder tenderly.

 

***

 

Both were quiet at breakfast. Illya read the morning's paper and stirred slowly his coffee. Gaby buttered her toast one bite of a time so that the butter didn’t soak in the bread and take away the crunch. Both were as calm as they could be but both were waiting the phone to ring. They knew it would, sooner or later. When it finally did Illya looked at it with a deep frown on his face.

Gaby gestured him to stay put and went to answer. “Hello.”

“Good morning,” a very cheerful lady said on the other end of the line. “We are making remodelling for some of the apartment in your building and we would like to hear is there maybe something in your apartment that would need a touch up?”

“No,” Gaby sighed.

“We have two lovely new tile pattern. Maybe your bathroom would need some cheering up?” the woman continued.

“No, thank you,” Gaby said.

“Maybe some new carpets?” she suggested. “We have three beautiful color opti -”

“No, thank you,” Gaby said and hung up the phone mid sentence. She returned to the kitchen and her chair, sipped her coffee and picked up a piece of toast and the butter knife.

“Who was it?” Illya asked tensely and flipped the newspaper pages.

“They were offering remodeling services,” Gaby said carefully and glanced at him quickly.

“What time?” Illya asked.

“Two of the clock,” Gaby said.

Illya looked at his wrist watch. “Where?”

“Three,” Gaby sighed and pursed her lips when she couldn’t remember. “What is three?”

“The old quarry in Dallington,” Illya said, and took a bite from his toast.

“Are we still being followed? “Gaby asked and when Illya shrugged she continued: “Shopping?”

“Yes,” Illya nodded.

“I can take a longer route,” Gaby suggested. “I’ll be there at the same time.”

“That is because you drive like a maniac,” Illya muttered to his paper.

Gaby frowned. “I thought you liked the way I drive.”

“I do,” Illya assured her and faced her. “Doesn't mean you don't drive like a maniac.”

 

***

 

They walked along the busy corridor of a department store and Illya glanced his watch. “I see you in there,” he said.

Gaby nodded and let go of his arm. She turned left, he turned right, both passing other customers. They weren't sure were they still being followed constantly; Illya hadn’t noticed anybody but it’s not like they could take the chance. It could always be somebody who was good at what they were doing. So they disappeared among other people inside the department store.

Gaby walked in middle of spring jackets. She yanked the price tag from the red jacket which covered her green dress and short jacket and pulled it on. Napoleon had taught that when you did things boldly enough people tended not to pay any attention to it. If she looked around first to see if anybody noticed her and then stealthily tried to pull the jacket on somebody would have noticed her acting suspiciously. Now she walked through the women's fashion section, the red jacket on like it was hers, took a pair a sunglasses from a display, and walked out of the department store side entrance looking different from when she entered. Quickly she walked a few blocks east, turned in an alley and viewed the parked cars. She chose the racing green Bristol 407 because it was the most powerful there. It took very little time to get inside of the car and get the engine running.  
  


***

 

Illya stopped the car in the old quarry. He checked the time. Slowly he got out of the car, left the door open and hung his new trench coat over it. He could've gone inside already but he decided to wait. During the drive there he had plenty of time to go through last night’s events over and over again. And now he was not only annoyed but also angry. He leaned against the car. When another car approached he looked at his watch again. Gaby’s route had been almost twenty kilometers longer. She parked her car three minutes after him and stepped out.

She took the jacket off, threw it on the front seat and went to Illya. “You didn’t need to wait for me,”she said but was happy that he did. 

“Your company is calming,” Illya said and didn’t look a bit of calm. “It was better to wait for you. I don’t want to rip off anybody's head. I thought it was over; agency constantly spying on their own. KGB did it. I was stupid enough to think that it would be different here.” 

Gaby frowned. Illya didn't even try to hide his annoyance. And that made her angry. Angry for him, for making him tense, and her too. And now the agency had made Illya see them like he saw the KGB and that not only angered her, it scared her. She wanted to keep him safe, shelter him from all the politics. Like he hadn't suffered enough. And Gaby definitely didn't want Illya to think that they were like the KGB. Because if he thought that he could decide to return to Russia when it was one and same where he was now. Gaby didn’t want Illya to return there. She wanted to keep her team intact, she wanted to keep Illya with her. And she wasn’t going to let any agency stop that. “Let’s go,” she said and pulled him gently with her.

He opened the metal door from the run-down building for her. They walked the dark corridor, took the stairs down, and along yet another corridor. Gaby hated the place. It felt like a tomb. Every step made her angrier. She felt the pressure building inside of her chest. Fear and anger mixed together and made breathing hard. They met Waverly, Napoleon and two strange men when the corridor opened up to a big space, illuminated by harsh and unforgiving fluorescent lights.

“Whose team was it?” Gaby demanded immediately. Illya glanced at her quickly, his own jaw tight, teeth clenched together.

“Gaby,” Waverly started.

“Whose team?” Gaby snapped. Anger and the fear of losing him built the pressure inside of her.

“My team,” one of the men they didn't know said seriously. “They were my men you shot at an -”

His sentence snapped when Gaby attacked and her body clashed against his. He staggered under the sudden attack, lost his balance and slumped on the floor, Gaby with him. She hit him, quickly and without caring if he was the one deserving her anger. The man tried to cover his face with his arms. He was a handler, somebody working behind a desk, no one who had got used to actual physical fighting, and Gaby didn't hold back. The other man rushed to get Gaby away from him. Waverly stepped closer. Illya and Napoleon both stood still.

Napoleon felt like the agency had handled this badly, cowardly. They had sent another team there without notifying Gaby and Peril. Apparently it was to make sure they were covered but it felt like babysitting. In his mind Gaby had right to show how angry it made her.

Illya was ready to let Gaby break bones if she wanted to. The point always went through better with broken bones.

The other man managed to get Gaby off from the man lying on the floor. He pulled her away and she jerked herself out of his grip and backed a few steps away. Only then Illya moved. He reached out, took hold of Gaby's arm, and pulled her slowly toward himself. Gaby let him do it. She was out of breath and scowled at the man on the floor and the one who had pulled her away. Illya didn't let go of her arm. He didn't believe she would attack again and wasn’t holding her tightly. But his hand grounded her like a lightning rod.

“Could everybody calm down,” Waverly said even though Gaby was the only one who hadn't stayed calm. “We can clear this out without fighting.”

“What clearing up is there?” Gaby snapped. “You sent another team there to babysit us. And you didn't tell us about it. You completely blindsided us. Why? Don’t you believe we can do our job?” she demanded.

“It wasn't that,” Waverly assured.

“Then what?” Gaby hissed.

“The other team was there to cover your backs if the situation demanded it. And it did like you -”

“We were handling it fine,” Illya said, annoyed, from behind Gaby. His hand slipped from her arm and he moved her aside, more gently than his posture and tone of voice would’ve suggested. He stepped closer to the others and Gaby observed him, alert. “They may have shot at us, but we were handling it. Do you think this was the first time the people we were with were shot at? Everybody there knew what they were doing. There were two minor gunshot wounds, nothing more. The situation became dangerous only when the Yugoslavs left and your agents stayed behind. Either I was going to shoot them or one of the Dragomirovs would have. I had to shoot or it would have been impossible to explain why I did not. It almost ruined the whole mission because you could not let us do our job in peace. Are the agents even alive?” he demanded. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. I hope I killed them so you have to explain to their families what kind of amateur mistake got them killed.”

“They are all alive,” Waverly assured him. He knew Kuryakin wanted to know even when he claimed that he didn’t. “As you probably expected. You shot very accurately to make sure.”

“Because I did not want to kill one of our own,” Illya huffed. “I hope Dragomirovs did not notice that. It is going to be very hard to explain why I only wounded them,” he said and glared at Waverly, disappointed that the agency had put them in that situation. “You made me choose who I potentially selected to die. And only wounding those agents I might just choose Gaby and me.”

Waverly’s jaw tightened and he took his glasses offs and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“You are lucky she does not have a family. There is no one you have to explain when you drag her body from canal in East London,” Illya said, cruelly, and nodded towards Gaby. “That could happen sooner than you believe.”

Gaby felt shivers traveling down her spine.

“For your sake I hope I’ll be dead by then too. Because otherwise I will rip everybody here to pieces,” he said with a terrifyingly calm even though he wasn’t, and took a step forward. It was Gaby’s turn to took hold of his arm, grounding him.

They were scattered in groups. Waverly and the two handlers were one group. The man Gaby had hit held a checked handkerchief against his nose. It was stained with blood. Napoleon stood near them, but clearly not one of them. His hands were in his pockets and he was seemingly relaxed. But he was tense like everybody else there. Gaby and Illya were their own group, Gaby’s hand on Illya’s arm, Illya’s fingers tapping against his thigh. He concentrated on breathing slowly and steadily, let himself to calm down, get his fingers to stop moving. Gaby wasn't going to stop touching him until he calmed. Her hand could by no means stop him, it was there to calm him down. It was there not to protect everybody else in the room, but to protect Illya.

Napoleon watched Peril’s fingers stop moving and he noticed Gaby let her hand leave his arm only then. He prided himself for not being sentimental, but right now he was still happy that Gaby and Illya were on the same side together and neither of them had to be there alone.

“This ridiculous meeting is not helping either,” Illya said dryly but not threatening any more. “Diversion, secret meeting in a quarry. Are you hoping we will get caught?”

“We should cut all the communication between them and the agency,” Napoleon said. “That way there isn't going to be another mistake like this.”

“If it is not already too late,” Illya snapped.

“Well, that remains to been seen,” Napoleon said, shrugging his shoulders. “But that is the only thing we can do now. No other teams anymore, just you two.”

“We can't cut the communication,” Waverly sighed frustratedly.

“I’m there,” Napoleon reminded. “Isn’t that the reason why I am there?”

Waverly huffed. He wasn't satisfied with the situation. But he knew Solo was right and that was only thing there was to be done without pulling Gaby and Kuryakin back. He knew if he tried something else, they would do something stupid and potentially risky just so he was forced to pull them back. He didn't have a choice if he wanted to get the mission finished. If Gaby and Kuryakin were pulled back now, they wouldn't get anybody else inside.

When he had borrowed Solo and Kuryakin over six months earlier he hadn’t had much more than hope that they would actually work well together. And in the first weeks after Istanbul he had seriously regretted his decisions. He had split the team to work with others and that had been an even worse idea. But just when he had considered sending Solo and Kuryakin back, they started to work together. He didn’t know if it was because they had seen what working with somebody else could be.

Eventually he noticed that even when they seemed to suffer each other's company they really didn’t. It took a long time for him to realize that the problem had been completely opposite of what he had thought. He had put together three loners who didn't play well with others and who had realized that maybe they did after all. The problem wasn't that they didn't get along or didn’t like each other. The problem was that they did work well together and probably even liked each other but refused to accept it. It was easier to deny and fight against it. 

And now, after months, after they had finally stopped fighting against being a team Waverly had a new problem. He had a highly efficient and skilfull team. But he also had a team whose loyalty was first to each other, not him nor the agency. He knew they didn’t much care what kind of orders the agency gave them when they were on missions. Not if they felt that there was a better way to handle things. And that meant that sometimes Waverly was forced to gave in and let them make their own minds up if he wanted to get missions completed. He needed to step back before there were problems. And now he felt like they were closer to complete disaster than ever if he didn’t let them make the decisions. But then that was one of the reasons why they were so good; the best he had ever worked with.

Unfortunately with the best came also bills from broken hotel furniture, notifications about motorcycles driven through a busy market halls, and burned down safehouses. Agents who had worked with them said they didn’t want to have any dealings with them again. There was a small Renoir still missing, a mark had been shot mid Brahms, through a violinist of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra of London, and how they ever had got a car full of counterfeit money in the living-room of the prime minister of Czechoslovakia Waverly would never know. Gaby shrugged her shoulders and spread her arms and sighed that she hadn’t done it. Kuryakin said that he hadn't noticed how it had happened or had it happened at all. Solo claimed they had parked the car outside. How it got to the living-room, he didn't know, but probably through the french doors. Kuryakin suggested that it was maybe the Polish who had done it. Solo seconded him. Gaby asked why there were never biscuits when they had tea and Waverly sighed and stopped asking.

With the best there was lot of stubbornness and extra costs.

“Fine,” he yielded. “It's you two alone. No more backup.”

Illya stared at Waverly but didn't give him anything, just a stoic expression. He turned to Napoleon and made the tiniest nod before looking at Gaby who looked at him. She was mostly firmly on the same side as Waverly, but now she didn't even look at him, only Illya. There was safety on her eyes, they were a team. Illya would keep Gaby safe and Gaby him. Earlier Illya had assumed that it was only his job to keep Gaby safe, but now he didn't even have to look at the man whose nose was bleeding to know how wrong he had been. Illya didn’t doubt that Gaby had demonstrated her power because he was forced to shoot their own agents. It was still new that there were people on the same side with him. Occasionally Gaby or Cowboy did something that made him realize there was somebody to cover his back and it still surprised him. It’s not like pocket-sized German was that much, but right now it felt plenty.

 

***

 

They met again in the busy department store. Both were tired. It was exhausting to be constantly tense and ready for something. Gaby was relieved when she saw Illya and got to wrap her arm around his arm. She felt herself stronger like that. Illya wanted a moment of peace; somewhere quiet to sit and for a while not act anything and be only himself. They walked slowly among the customers.

“Are you hungry?” Illya asked.

“Yes,” Gaby said after thinking about it for a while.

“Come on. I will take you to dinner,” Illya promised and they stepped outside, away from the crowds. “You can order three desserts.”

Gaby hummed and squeezed Illya’s arm against herself. “You are such a good fiancé,” she sighed and made Illya smile his little smile.


	5. Original sin

Gaby took a salmon and horseradish appetizer from her plate and bit into it. It was delicious. She jerked when Zoya suddenly smacked her linen napkin on the table so hard that the cutlery clinked.

“позорный,” she huffed and stood up. “I said we want only the best quality. Excuse me.” She walked across the mansion's dining room, her heels clinking against the floor as she went through the sunbeams coming from the big windows and disappeared through the door.

Gaby watched her go and ate the rest of her appetizer. She turned back and looked at Polina across the table. “What was that?”

Polina craned her neck and glanced at Zoya’s plate and the bite she had taken. “Caviar, most likely,” she suspected.

Gaby nodded. “I don’t really like caviar that much,” she confessed.

Polina looked at her under her brows. “Do not say that to her.”

Gaby chuckled and even Polina smiled. “It’s nice that you came,” Gaby said. “I’m glad I have company while Zoya yells at the caterers.”

“She does not hesitate to tell them what she wants,” Polina granted.

Zoya returned and with her was a man who grabbed the plate of toast and caviar appetizers and took it away. Zoya glared after him. “I said only the best quality,” she repeated. “And that is the garbage they try to offer to me. What would the guests say if we served that at the wedding?” She shook her head, displeased.

“The salmon is good,” Gaby said.

Zoya made a quick and vague hum. “Edible,” she said. “Only thing I am truly impressed with is the champagne.”

“You brought the champagne,” Polina reminded.

“Yes, that is right,” Zoya sighed. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“It’s only appetizers,” Gaby said and noticed Polina shook her head slightly to her. “Which of course are important,” she assured them quickly and turned to face Zoya. “But the main course is the one the guests will remember, I am sure. Are they serving that soon?”

“I do not know will they ever get to it,” Zoya said and sipped her champagne. 

Gaby pursed her lips pensively. She decided to change the subject even when it felt like a risky thing to do after the low quality caviar. But she had to bring the matter up eventually. “We have decided to postpone our honeymoon,” Gaby said.

“What?” Zoya sighed nonplussed.

“With all of these dealings with the Yug - “

“No, absolutely not,” Zoya interrupted her. “You need to go on a honeymoon. You can not start the marriage here, in the middle of everyday matters,” she huffed, like shoot-outs were very ordinary.

“It’s no trouble,” Gaby assured. “We made the decision already, it is postponed and irreversible,” she claimed. There never was a honeymoon, they couldn't leave anywhere for a week or two in the middle of a mission.

“Who made this decision?” Zoya insisted. “Was it you? Is Illya agreeing with you? I am sure he is not agreeing with you.”

“Illya needs to be here,” Gaby said and lifted her chin. 

“Illya needs to go on a honeymoon with his wife,” Zoya said firmly. “You need to go on a holiday before you settle in your everyday life. You need to spend time alone.”

“We can spend time alone at home,” Gaby said and sipped her champagne. This was her decision to make. She probably wouldn't get to choose what kind of cake she would be cutting at her own wedding, but she was the one saying to Zoya where Illya needed to be.

“You need to relax,” Zoya continued.

“We can relax at home,” Gaby insisted.

“You need to enjoy each other,” Zoya said and then her face tightened. “And you need to start a family.”

Gaby sighed. “We…” she hesitated when she realized what she was saying, “we will start a family,” she promised anyway.

“Yes, at home, in the middle of ordinary business,” Zoya pointed out. “It is not the same.”

“How?” Gaby asked and opened her eyes wide. “It’s the same baby regardless where it’s made.”

“It will be happier baby if it is made in the honeymoon,” Zoya insisted and stood up. “I need to go see what is taking so long in the kitchen,” she said and pointed her finger at Gaby. “This is not finished.”

“It will be the same baby,” Gaby insisted loudly after her in a desperate and high voice. She turned back to the table and looked at Polina, her whole face frowning. “It will be the same baby, won’t it?”

“I would not know,” Polina said.

Gaby’s face sank. “Yes. I didn't think,” she muttered.

“It is alright,” Polina assured. “It is not a problem. I have never been that keen to have a child. So I am happy that we have never had one.” Her gaze lowered and she looked at her hands. “And I would not want any child to have a father like…”

Gaby nodded and sipped from her glass.

“You need to go at least for few days,” Zoya announced when she returned and made Gaby roll her eyes. “Three, maybe four days,” she suggested as she sat down. “Maybe you enjoy so much you decide to stay a bit longer.”

“Maybe we enjoy so much we’ll stay for two weeks,” Gaby said sarcastically.

“Yes,” Zoya said and ignored her sarcasm completely. “In that time you can properly relax and enjoy your time as newlyweds. And the baby will be so much happier.”

“It will be the same baby whether we do it in the honeymoon or the back seat of our car,” Gaby huffed, frustrated.

Zoya tilted her head displeased and Gaby cleared her throat when she realized what she had said. “Maybe not there,” Zoya remarked.

Polina sipped her champagne and covered her smile with the glass. Gaby took a mini quiche from the plate in front of her and stuffed it in her mouth so she couldn't say anything stupid anymore.

They had dinner which Gaby thought was delicious and Zoya only mediocre. Afterwards there was eight little pieces of cake. Gaby liked chocolate and apricot, Zoya picked the vanilla and lemon. Gaby didn't have anything against vanilla and lemon, it just wasn’t chocolate and apricot. Polina left them alone before the cake arrived.

Gaby leaned on her chair. “I can’t eat anything anymore before the wedding or I won't fit in my dress,” she muttered.

Zoya smiled. “You have no worries. Wait ten years and start to worry only then.”

“Well I’m ahead of Polina at least,” Gaby said. “She didn’t have cake.”

Zoyan hummed displeased and her brows frowned. “She was such a happy child,” she said, “and now she is just a shadow. There you have example what happens when you marry when you are not sure should you. And she was too young anyway.”

“How old was she?” Gaby asked.

“It was ten years ago, so… seventeen,” Zoya said. “Only a child. I am not saying everybody is too young then. I was seventeen when I married. And Vaska was as much older than me as Anatoly was Polina. But I did make that decision by myself. I decided to marry so I could leave my father's house. But Polina did not need to rush, she should have waited. But her parents liked him. He had money and potential. Maybe her parents did not pressure her, but they pushed her to marry him anyway. I said they should not have but they were sure they were doing the right thing. Time has shown that they did not,” Zoya sighed and shook her head. “He barely notices her unless it is to criticize her of something. She would benefit from some attention,” she said and continued bluntly: “Anatoly does not seem the type who shines in the marriage bed.”

Gaby nodded when she didn't know what else to do. She hadn't expected Zoya to analyse others’ relationships so closely. She wondered what her verdict was about Illya and her.

“She should take a lover,” Zoya announced and Gaby glanced at her. “I hope I did not shock you?” she continued smiling. “There is no point of trying to claim that marriage is going to change your sleeping arrangements.”

Gaby hummed. “No,” she said. “I suppose it doesn't.“ She considered for a while, but when they already were talking about it, she decided to ask: “Do  _ you _ have a lover?”

“Heavens, no,” Zoya laughed. “But then I have a husband who pays attention to me. When you have that there is no need for a lover.” Zoya tilted her head and looked at Gaby like she was estimating her and managed to made her uncomfortable. “You would not take a lover. Not in secret anyway,” she suspected. “You would say out loud if Illya was not paying enough attention. You would demand that. If you took a lover you would tell him. Probably at the breakfast table, looking at him down your nose, making him feel himself very incompetent and small.”

Gaby felt the warm glow of her cheeks. 

“But then Illya seems the type who does pay a great deal of attention to you,” Zoya said. “I think you two will be just fine.”

Gaby reached for her water glass. Her mouth felt dry and her cheeks were flushed. She felt like an idiot for blushing over somebody's opinion about things that weren't even happening. She set the glass back on the table and turned back to Zoya. “Was it love at first sight?” she asked to change the subject. “You and Vaska?”

Zoya smiled. “No,” she confessed. “There was no love for a long time. He was ready to take a wife and I wanted to leave my father's house. It was marriage of convenience.”

“But you love him now,” Gaby said.

“Of course,” Zoya said and flicked her hand. “He is the love of my life. But that is not what you asked. You asked was it love at first sight, and it was not. But it came there, eventually. Only after the wedding. I think only after the second anniversary. We didn’t marry for love like you are about to do.”

Gaby had to force the smile on her lips. She hadn't ever struggled with a cover before, but now she did. She felt like a fraud claiming to marry for love in front of people who all were so happy for her.

 

***

 

Gaby coaxed Polina to come along with her when she needed to see the priest because of wedding details. There was no need to see Napoleon, it was her excuse to get Polina alone with her, in the same compact space and maybe find out if she knew anything about Anatoly’s affairs that could help them. She carefully guided the conversation she herself was keeping up towards her husband and asked about the family as boldly as she dared. But Polina gave her nothing. She answered back and didn't seem to mind her asking, but mostly her answer was she didn’t know. Gaby drove along the quiet sand road as slowly as she could, made few unnecessary detours and managed to prolong the trip to the church almost three times as long.

She couldn't say was Polina lying to her or didn’t she really know. She couldn't read her. The only thing Gaby could say was that even when her face was calm, she twisted her fingers nervously and was like a bomb waiting to blow up in any time.

Finally she had to pull over by the church.

“I have few things to discuss with the Reverend,” Gaby said when she got out the car. “You can see the church in the meantime. I won't be long.”

The demurely dressed woman Gaby had met in the church before escorted her to the vestry. Gaby closed the door behind her and breathed out a lungful of air, shook her head and rested her hands on her hips. Napoleon took the loupe from his eye and lowered the golden cross he had been examining.

“She is giving me nothing,” Gaby sighed, frustrated.

“Who?” Napoleon asked.

“Polina Gregova,” Gaby explained. “Vasiliy’s niece. I’m trying to find out does she knows anything that could be useful to us. I’m asking and asking and nothing comes out.” Gaby sat on the edge of his desk. “Maybe she doesn’t know anything,” she muttered.

Napoleon turned his attention back to the cross and lifted the loupe back to his eye.

“What are you doing?” Gaby asked and crossed her arms on her chest.

“This is a very interesting artifact,” Napoleon muttered. “Probably 1600s. French, I think. Very valuable.”

“Are you going to rob the church when you leave?” Gaby asked and her other eyebrow rose.

“Do you know where they keep this?” Napoleon asked when he removed the loupe again and waved the heavy cross in front of Gaby. “In the basement, in a wooden box. That is not the right place for this. It’s a beautiful piece, it should be somewhere people can see it and admire it.”

“So you would be merely doing them a favour by taking it,” Gaby smirked.

“Yes, a favor,” Napoleon said. “Everybody would win; me, the cross, the parish.”

“Tell me how would the parish win again?” Gaby was interested to hear.

“Well, maybe they wouldn't win,” Napoleon sighed. “But they do have their faith and that would help them get over the loss.”

Gaby shook her head, smiling. “I still don’t understand how Waverly agreed to this. You are a terrible priest. How did you convince him to let you come here?”

“I told him all about my religious upbringing,” Napoleon said. “I was an altar boy and that convinced him that I would manage this.”

“You, an altar boy?” Gaby said. “How did that ever happen?”

“My father was very devout Catholic, I’ll have you know,” Napoleon assured. “At least when he was sober enough to be. It is possible that I forgot to mention that I was an altar boy only eight months and mostly used my time to cheat at the marbles which we played when the fathers didn’t see us. But I didn’t think that was so meaningful.”

Gaby chuckled quietly. “Why were you there only eight months?”

“Let's say that I wasn’t as good a thief as I am now,” Napoleon breathed out and tapped his chin with the cross. “Decent, but not yet good.”

“What did you steal?” Gaby asked. “Religious art, French artifacts?” she suggested and nodded towards the gold cross pressed against his chin.

“Only pennies,” Napoleon assured her and his brows furrowed. “A few pennies. Some pennies. And you can’t believe the fuss it caused.” He set the golden cross on the edge of the desk.

“Where did you steal the pennies from?” Gaby asked.

“From the offerings,” Napoleon confessed. “But in my defence those pennies were meant for the poor and we almost were so I thought that I was entitled to those pennies.”

“I’m sure you were,” Gaby grinned and slid off the desk. “I’m going to head back. Let’s see how long I can make the drive back last.”

“Drive carefully,” Napoleon muttered and grabbed the cross back in his hand and lifted the loupe to his eye.

Gaby stepped out from the vestry and saw Polina who was waiting in the corridor. She quickly put a smile on her face. “Everything is settled. We can go.”

Polina breathed audibly, radiated uncertainty, but opened her mouth. “Do you mind if I speak with the priest?” she asked carefully.

“No,” Gaby sighed, surprised. “Of course not.” She knocked on the door and waited for Napoleon to open it. “Reverend Thomas, this is my friend Polina. Would you have some time to talk with her?”

Napoleon turned his interested gaze to Polina who stood still in her place, holding one wrist with her other hand. She had white gloves on. “Of course I have. Come in.”

“I’ll be waiting outside,” Gaby said. “Take your time, there is no rush,” she encouraged Polina as she passed her by in the corridor. If Polina would talk to a priest that would be fine too. She could talk as long as she wanted. Gaby walked through the church, outside to the warm sunshine. She sat on a bench under an oak and watched the churchyard.

 

***

 

“I do not belong to this church,” Polina said when she stepped in the vestry. “Or any church. Apparently there is no reason to believe in God when there is a cause to believe in.”

Napoleon nodded. “That is quite alright,” he assured. “Do sit down.”

Polina sat and twisted her fingers. “I do not know how this works. Can I talk here whatever I want?”

“Yes,” Napoleon said. “There is no right or wrong thing to say in here. Is there something particular that is troubling you?”

Polina sighed and seemed already to regret coming in to talk. She twisted her hands and Napoleon looked around. He needed to give her something to do with her hands so she could stop twisting those. She grew more and more nervous looking with every movement her fingers made. If she calmed down, maybe she would talk.

“Would you like some cake?” Napoleon asked. “People constantly bring me cakes and pastries and I don’t know how to get rid of all of those.”

“You do not need to trouble,” Polina said.

“It's no trouble,” Napoleon assured her and was already up and opening a cupboard to take out some plates. He turned to look at Polina waiting and she nodded hastily like she was only doing it to get Napoleon to stop looking at her. She seemed to be bothered by that. Napoleon wondered how often people actually looked at her. Apparently she hadn't got used to it. He set a piece of chocolate bundt cake on a plate in front of her and returned to his chair.

“Go ahead,” he said and was happy to see Polina slowly pulling her white gloves away and taking the fork from the edge of the plate. She cut a tiny piece from the cake.

“It is nice,” she commented in a quiet voice and cut another little bite.

Napoleon let her be to eat her bundt cake in peace. If Gaby had asked questions and hadn't got answers maybe it was better not to ask questions.

Polina ate a few bites and hummed. “My husband does not want me to eat desserts,” she said and looked at the cake, not Napoleon. “He says I am not doing my duties as a wife if I get fat.”

Napoleon frowned. He didn't know what to say. Polina was slim as a willow branch. He couldn't imagine that a few desserts here and there would change that. More likely she would benefit from a few pieces of cake. “Does he deny lots of thing from you?” he asked, guiding the conversation towards Anatoly.

Polina’s shoulders slumped slightly and she looked at her cake thoughtfully; her hand had stopped to lean against the desk. “Yes,” she finally said and lifted her eyes to Napoleon. “I suppose he likes that.” She turned her gaze on her fork  and ate the piece of cake from it. She swallowed slowly, set her fork on the plate, and turned back to Napoleon. “Are the things I talk about in here confidential?”

“Absolutely,” Napoleon asured. “Only between me and you. And God. But he already knows everything you are going to tell.”

Polina hummed. “And what if the things are… against the law?”

“Even then,” Napoleon said.

Polina twisted her fingers again. She looked like she didn't know what she was going to do. Napoleon observed her small movements and expressions and waited.

“He is a criminal,” Polina then said. “My husband. All my family. Everybody. Me as well, I think.” She stared at her hands. “I am not sure have I ever done anything illegal, but I know others have and I have not told anybody so that I suppose makes me an accomplice.”

“Do you regret it?” Napoleon asked.

Polina looked at him and tilted her head. “I… I am not sure,” she sighed. “I do not know for sure what has been done so how can I regret that?”

“What do you know then?” Napoleon asked directly.

“Nothing much,” Polina said. “My husband likes to keep me away from it all. It is not to keep me safe. He thinks I am not intelligent enough to understand what it is that he does,” she continued and her face tensed up. “Sometimes I want to kill him. Will I go to hell If I do that?”

Napoleon leaned on his chair. “It depends on the situation,” he said.

Polina frowned. “It is a murder. That is a sin, is it not?”

“If you had a child and someone threatened to kill that child and you would kill that person to order to save that child, would that be a sin?” Napoleon asked. He didn't believe sin was all black and white, that it either was or wasn’t. He believed in the grey areas. He had made a lot of money with the grey areas.

“But I would have still killed somebody,” Polina said. “God would disapprove of that, surely.”

“I’m sure God wouldn’t want anybody to kill an innocent child,” Napoleon pointed out. “You would’ve stopped that. That doesn't sound like a sin.”

Polina sighed. Her shoulders slumped again and brows furrowed. “But that is not the case, I would only protect myself.” She stood up and took a few steps and pointed the water pitcher and glasses on the table by the wall. “Can I take a glass of water?”

“Of course,” Napoleon said. He watched Polina pouring the water and drink like she had just crossed a desert. Her hands were trembling and Napoleon waited for her to to blow up at any moment, burst her seams from everything she was keeping inside. He kind of wanted to see it. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took a bottle of whisky from it. He went to the table, poured a drink, and and handed it to her.

Polina glanced at the amber liquid. “Is that appropriate in church?”

“For medicinal purposes, yes,” Napoleon convinced her. For a moment a thought flashed through his brain; maybe he truly was a terrible priest.

Polina took the glass and looked it for a while. Napoleon thought she was  the kind of woman who would sip it carefully, so it surprised him when she drank it all in one go. She frowned when the alcohol burned her mouth and throat. She inhaled sharply and handed her glass to Napoleon for a refill. After the second drink she leaned against the edge of the table, the empty glass hanging from her fingers.

“You can not understand what it is to live when somebody else controls your life,” Polina said and sounded tired. “When someone else says what you can do and when. How to dress. How to talk. He would decide my thoughts if he could.”

Napoleon slowly twisted the bottle cap back on and set the whisky down.

Polina pushed herself away from the table. “What is sad is that I think I am more intelligent than he is. I did not realize it at first, not for many years. He covers it well that he is not as educated as he claims to be. That is why he is so cruel, I think. He knows that and he knows I know.”

“Mayb -”

“I used to paint,” Polina continued and didn’t let Napoleon even get started. “I paint now too, but before I painted what I wanted, how I wanted. I was good. But he said I was too modern. Garish, I think was the word he used,” Polina huffed and was getting more tense, even angrier. “He said watercolors suited me better. Now I paint flowers with those. Dainty little flowers like a woman should. He controls everything, he has taken away everything I get joy from.” She paced the floor, squeezed the glass in her hand and gritted her teeth. “I am sure God would not want me to hate my husband. To despise him. Wish his death. But I do not care,” she declared. “I do not care anymore what God or anybody thinks!” she snapped and threw the glass across the room. It shattered against the stone wall behind his desk and made Polina jerk and her eyes open wide. “I am so sorry,” she sighed with a trembling voice and looked scared at her own reaction.

“It’s just a glass,” Napoleon said and was interested to see if the situation escalated. “That's how easy it is. He didn’t control that. You did it all by yourself.”

Polina turned to look at Napoleon, who leaned against the side table. She felt out of breath just because of that little tantrum and it irritated her even more.

“He can’t control you here,” Napoleon said. “He has no power here.”

Polina swallowed quickly and took a shallow breath of air. She wanted to scream. Let out a voice that would shatter the windows. She wanted to break more things. She wanted to burn down the church. She wanted to do something drastic. Determinedly she walked to Napoleon, her hands slid around his neck and her lips pressed onto his lips.

She was quick and Napoleon didn’t know if he could have stopped her if he had wanted to. But thinking about that was waste of time. He had no problem with Polina kissing him. Her kiss burned, she was rough and intense and her nails burrowed in his neck so that it hurt. She gasped sharply and pushed herself away from Napoleon, lowering her gaze.

“I am sorry,” she muttered again, as upset as when she had broken the glass.

“It’s fine,” Napoleon said and cleared his throat. He could taste whisky in her kiss that he still felt on his lips.

“I should have not done that,” Polina sighed. “It was very inappropriate of me. You have made an agreement with God and this church to not do things like that and now I…” her voice withered out from embarrassment.

Napoleon pursed his lips. He could point out that Polina was maybe thinking about the Catholic church. But he wasn’t sure was this really the time to explain the differences between Catholics and Lutherans. She hadn't moved any farther away, her hands were still on his neck and she oozed restraint. Napoleon was sure that thinking they were both doing something forbidden worked to his advantage. Was it Polina’s advantage too? That he couldn't say. But she was so unhappy that a little attention would probably cheer her up. So Napoleon slide his hand to the small of her back and pulled her gently closer and she faced him.

“God would say that everything happens for a reason and -”

His sentence never got finished as she pressed herself against him. He turned them around, lifted her to sit on the edge of the side table. Polina’s hands yanked his cassock impatiently, then his shirt, it was like she had got tired of waiting to get something of her own. And Napoleon didn’t want to be in her way. For a second he thought of Gaby, who waited outside. Then he blissfully forgot everything about her and pushed Polina’s narrow skirt up her thighs.

Polina looked like a fragile bird but didn’t act like one. Her movements were fast and impatient. She ripped his clothes, dug her nails in him, kissed so hard he was sure she would bruise him. Her every movement screamed how she feared somebody would interrupt them and this was just one more thing she couldn't have.

Her fingers opened his belt and trousers. Napoleon’s hand slipped under her skirt, slowly detaching her stockings from her garter belt so he could slide his fingers deeper under her skirt. Polina lifted herself from the table so he could pull her underwear down along her thighs, dropping them on the floor. Polina kissed a mark on his neck and a sharp gasp came out of her when he opened her thighs and thrust himself in. Polina’s hand swiped across the table when she tried to grab something to hold herself up, books fell off the table. The water pitcher was knocked down, shattering against the floor. Polina’s legs wrapped around Napoleon and her kisses were sweet and sharp. Her moans echoed from the stone walls in the same pace as the table hit the wall. Her head bent back and her other pump dropped on the floor.  

 

***

 

Gaby slouched on the bench; she swung her leg back and forth, bored, and blew air from her mouth. She knew without looking at her watch that she had waited a long time. She wondered how much Polina had to say that it was taking this long. She heard the church door opening and closing behind her and turned to look. The two previous times it had not been Polina, but now it finally was her. She stepped the few stone steps on the path and stopped to pull her white gloves on. Gaby stood up and walked to her. Her body was stiff after sitting on the hard bench.

“I thought maybe you escaped from another door and forget about me,” Gaby said lightly, a smile on her lips.

“I am sorry it took so long,” Polina apologized.

“It’s okay,” Gaby lied. “I hope it was helpful.”

Polina nodded quickly. Her cheeks were red.

Gaby gestured towards the church. “I forgot to tell about the flowers,” she explained. “It will take only a minute. I’ll meet you at the car.” She left Polina outside and hurried across the church, knocked on the vestry door and opened it. She stopped on the threshold to watch Napoleon buttoning his shirt. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“What does it look like?” Napoleon asked in return. “Could you close the door?”

Gaby stepped in and pushed the door shut. There was broken glass on the floor, a big puddle in the corner, things were knocked down here and there. “What’s happened in here?” she wondered. “And why wouldn't you be wearing a shirt?” she asked. Then her little frown smoothed and she rolled her eyes. “You can’t be serious,” she sighed. “You were supposed to talk to her. Find out what she knows.”

“I did that,” Napoleon assured, “too. She doesn't know anything.”

Gaby tilted her head and looked at him, displeased. “What made you think that seducing her would help?”

“Trust me, she made that decision all by herself,” Napoleon said and examined his shirt. “She ripped a button from my shirt,” he muttered, frowning when there wasn't a button to close.

Gaby shook her head and went to the door. “You are such a bad priest,” she said stepping out.

“That was what she needed. I was helping,” Napoleon claimed. 

Gaby’s other brow rose little and she pulled the door shut. Polina waited by the car and Gaby pushed her annoyance away and her lips curved into a smile. “All is well,” she said lightly.

 

***

 

Illya got back from the bathroom and picked up the pillows Gaby had thrown from the top of the bed ton the floor and piled those on an armchair in the corner. He took his alarm clock and adjusted it.

“I told her that we have decided to postpone the honeymoon,” Gaby said.

“Good,” Illya muttered.

“But Zoya insists that we need to go at least for a few days,” Gaby sighed. “I promised that we would.”

Illya hummed approvingly. For a few days they could be away.

“You cannot believe how she insisted,” Gaby muttered. “She was saying how we need time together away from all of this. How we need to relax and enjoy each other.”

Illya glanced at Gaby from under his brows.

“Her words,” Gaby pointed out. “And how it is so important that we don’t start the marriage with ordinary everyday life. And apparently the baby will be happier if it’s conceived during the honeymoon.”

Illya turned to look at Gaby. “What baby?”

“The baby we are going to make in the honeymoon,” Gaby explained. “I promised that too.”

“Did you maybe promise something else? That is quite a lot,” Illya commented.

“Hey!” Gaby said tightly and pointed at Illya. “I am the one making the plans with Zoya. Or at least I’m there when she makes the plans. If you don’t want to make a baby in the honeymoon you can be the one telling her. Is that clear?”

“Very much so,” Illya muttered and set the alarm clock on the bedside table.

Gaby sighed. “I tried to find out what Polina knows, but I didn’t work. Fortunately she wanted to talk to a priest so Solo talked with her. She knows nothing.” She started to pull the bedspread from the bed and Illya helped her. “And then he had sex with her, like you can imagine he would,” Gaby added.

Illya straightened his back and stopped what he was doing. “He did what?”

Gaby yanked the bedspread off. “In a church.”

Illya looked at her for a while and then shook his head slightly. “I am not even that surprised. I am shocked how normal that sounds.”

Gaby smiled and went to get herself a glass of water.

“A few months ago in Prague there was a small child who had dark hair and blue eyes and who looked just like him. I am sure his mother has met Cowboy,” Illya said when Gaby returned.

Gaby set the glass on the bedside table and chuckled. She climbed into the bed. “Do you think there are lots of little Solos in the world?”

“Most likely,” Illya said and fluffed his pillow under his head.

“And what about little Kuryakins?” Gaby asked and turned to lie on her side facing Illya who turned to look at her.

“No,” he said after a while. “I don’t think so.”

“But you can't be sure,” Gaby noted.

“No,” Illya had to agree. “Still I feel like no. But there are at least a few small Cowboys.”

Gaby hummed. “Is there something else in the world?” she asked. “Someone who is missing you somewhere?”

“I doubt that,” Illya said. “You? How many hearts were broken when you defected?”

“Dozens,” Gaby claimed. “As you can probably imagine.”

“Absolutely,” Illya assured her. He lifted his hand to the lamp switch. “Do you need light?”

“No,” Gaby said and Illya turned it off. She lay still and chewed her lower lip. “Are you missing somebody who stayed behind somewhere?” she asked.

“No,” Illya muttered.

“But there must have been those too? Has anybody ever been special?” she continued when Illya didn’t seem to mind.

“Yes,” he said and turned to look Gaby in the dark.

“Was she nice?” Gaby asked interested.

“Yes,” Illya said.

“What else?”

Illya sighed. Talking about her didn’t bother him even when he had expected that it would. But he still wanted to think what he was saying before actually saying it. “Funny. Stubborn. Very capable.” Illya made even the stubborn sound tender and his soft tone annoyed Gaby. 

“But you don’t miss her?” she made sure.

“No,” Illya said. “There would be no reason in that. It is hard to miss somebody who is involved in your life.”

“There is somebody special right now?” Gaby asked frowning. “Why haven't you told me that?” she insisted. “Friends tell these kind of things to each other. You do know that?”

“Yes, I do,” Illya assured her. She kept reminding him. “Do you mind that there is someone special?” he asked. He liked Gaby’s immediately annoyed tone of voice.

“No,” Gaby said quickly and knew she was lying. “Of course not. I’m happy for you. Still you should've told me.”

“I assumed you knew,” Illya said and knew he was being unfair. But he liked teasing her and he rarely had the chance to do so. Usually it was the other way around. “I hope you are not jealous.”

Gaby snorted. “As your fiancée I have every right to be,” she pointed out. “But no, of course I’m not.”

“Good,” Illya sighed and turned his back on Gaby when he rolled onto his side. “It would be foolish to be jealous of oneself,” he muttered quietly.

Gaby’s lips pressed in a tight line and she glared at his back in the dark. She felt like pushing him out of the bed. She was sure he had misled her on purpose. Gaby wondered had Illya wanted to see would she mind if he did have somebody in his life. Was he just teasing her or had he made some attempt to test the waters? And when the idea of him testing her was in her mind, it didn’t go away and Gaby sort of liked that it didn’t. Maybe this was a subject for a another time and place but she couldn't help herself. “I’m special?” she asked and tried to sound as uninterested as possible. 

“Of course you are,” Illya muttered, his eyes already closed. “Did you expect something else?”

Gaby hummed softly and her lips curved into a smile. “That's nice to hear.”

“And I only said special,” Illya remarked firmly and turned his head and spoke to her over his shoulder. “I did not say I was in love with you. So don’t read anything between the lines.” He didn’t want Gaby to think he was getting soft like Cowboy liked to say. “I mean I do not mind your company and if you were to die I would be quite sad.”

“Quite sad,” Gaby repeated. “That really warms my heart,” she smirked.

“I regret I said anything,” Illya sighed. “Go to sleep.”

Gaby turned on her back and hummed, pleased. “Is Solo special too?” Gaby teased.

“Go to sleep,” Illya muttered, feeling himself stupid that he had said anything. He wished he could take it back.

Gaby let her thumb feel the ring on her finger. She had started to get used to it. Same way she had got used to Illya. Sometimes Gaby felt restless. There was no reason for it, she just felt it and it made her anxious and tense. But somehow with Illya she didn’t feel it. He was so serious and even sullen from time to time and yet it was so easy and calming to be around him. It felt like with him all the noises of the world hushed. She was even sure she slept better next to him.

She reached her arm out and nudged his shoulder gently to which Illya replied with a little displeased grunt. “You are special too,” Gaby said not much louder than a whisper. “I hope you knew that already.”

Illya rubbed his cheek against the pillow and corrected his position. Probably he had known. It didn’t surprise him so he must have. Still it was nice to hear.

 

***

 

It was late when Gaby and Illya left from Dragomirovs and walked slowly to the car. It had been three hours of dining and Illya trying to convince Zoya that few days away was all they needed. Illya opened the door for her and Gaby smiled in thanks. She threw the cardigan she was carrying into the back seat and Illya started the engine.

“I need to go my place tonight,” Gaby said. “I’m going to the seamstress first thing in the  morning and it is closer.”

Illya hummed as an answer. Gaby turned the radio on and searched for music. They bickered in a friendly way about the music, which Illya thought was bad. Gaby rolled her eyes, smiled and claimed he was unreasonable. Illya frowned. Gaby judged his driving and Illya shook his head at her but his lips curved into a smile. She added volume to the radio and he turned it back down. Both were in a good mood and didn’t even bother to cover it from each other. Gaby pointed out that the light was turning red and Illya asked could she just let him drive. She asked would Illya carry her over the doorstep at the wedding night and Illya promised to do that if Gaby would turn the radio off. She shook her head and smiled. When Illya stopped the car in front of Gaby’s building she leaned close and kissed his cheek without any particular reason. They were quite sure no one was following them anymore.

“Good night,” Gaby said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you,” Illya said and the corners of his mouth twitched. He could feel the moistness of her kiss on his cheek. She stepped out of the car and waved her hand. Her smile and colourful skirt were the last thing Illya saw from her before she disappeared inside the building. He locked the door after her, face soft and relaxed, before driving away.

Gaby leaned against the wall and pulled her shoe strap back behind her heel. She climbed to the third floor, opened the door, dropped her handbag on the floor and reached for the light switch.

She didn’t ever touch it, there was not even time for a scream before somebody hit her against the wall so hard all air escaped from her lungs. She managed to just about breathe more air in before somebody grabbed her again. She lifted her hand to cover herself, try to fight back the hands that were pushing her against the wall. She got a grip on a  handful of hair but lost it. She didn’t know who she was fighting with, but it was somebody taller and stronger than she was.

Gaby kicked as hard as she could, managed to get her lag between her and the attacker and kicked again with all the power her dancer's thigh held. She pushed herself away from the wall and rushed to the door, it opened and she could see the yellowish light in the hallway. The attacker crashed against her and the door slammed shut, capturing her inside the darkness. In panic she tried to take hold of the surface of the door; her nails slid right off. She fought back, they stumbled on something and gravity pulled them on the table and over it to the floor. Things fell down with them, dishes broke against the floor, cutlery clinked. They hit the shelf and Gaby heard her rose bush dropping and the pot cracking. She managed to get up, tired and scared but got pinned against the wall again.

Strong hands gripped her throat and squeezed crushingly hard. Gaby felt her feet just brushing against the floor, she tried to claw her nails on the attackers hands but they were short and she couldn't get a grip. Her hands were weak and she couldn't breathe. She tried to kick again, but hit only the shelf next to her. Something dropped and shattered on the floor. She was panicking, trying to gasp air she couldn’t get. There was no strength left. Her heart was pounding in her chest, hard and fast, but she knew that would eventually stop. Everything was dark and blurry and Gaby couldn’t say was it only the dark room or were her eyes closing. She wouldn’t see Illya tomorrow. She wouldn’t see Illya ever again.


	6. Till death do us part

Illya slowed the car before the turning, glanced at the traffic, and the cardigan Gaby had thrown on the back seat caught his eyes. She had forgotten it. But she wouldn't need that today anymore. Illya could give it back to her when he saw her tomorrow. He turned the steering wheel but stopped the car suddenly. He twisted to get a better view of the back seat. It was only a cardigan, but it made him frown.

He knew Gaby had a habit of marking her territory by scattering clothes on chairs and leaving empty tea and coffee cups on the tables and shelves, and crumbling biscuits everywhere. And Illya only now realized that he had gotten used to that. And she avoided doing it in his place anyway even when she struggled to remember to take a plate for her biscuits. But if he wasn't careful, she would probably claim his car for her own. Now there was only the cardigan, but soon it could be a used cup on the dashboard and after that he could give the car to her, because it would be her car.

Illya shifted into reverse and backed the car in front of her building. He killed the engine and grabbed the cardigan. Illya turned on the light in the hallway and climbed to the third floor. He was just about to knock on her door when something shattered against the floor on the other side of the wall. His fist froze when his body tensed up and he listened for a while. He didn't want to be paranoid and think something seemed wrong when maybe she had just dropped something. He opened his fist and pressed his palm against the wall. He didn't really hear much but he could feel the low thump from the wall when something slammed against it. He stepped back and kicked the door right next to the lock. Splinters flew around the latch when the weak door gave in.

Gaby felt the attacker’s hand letting go of her throat when the door burst open. There was nothing she could do herself anymore, Illya was the one ripping the attacker off of her. Gaby leaned against the wall so she wouldn’t fall. Her legs were shaky and powerless. She breathed in, panting and gasping for air.

Illya’s fist hit the man in the throat; he knew that stopped pretty much anybody. He didn’t want to take his gun out and alert all the neighbours. But in the warm light coming from the hallway, reflecting on everything shiny, he could see the knife next to the hot plate even in the dark. He grabbed that, shoved the man against the wall like the attacker had probably pushed Gaby earlier. Paintings rattled against the wall and the knife slid smoothly in between the attacker’s ribs. The man didn't scream, he couldn't when the air from his lung escaped from his body when Illya twisted the knife. He made a desperate sigh before he relaxed and Illya let him slump onto the floor, the knife still in him. There was hardly any blood, everything was weirdly neat, like surgery.

“Are you okay?” Illya asked and glanced at Gaby who leaned against the bathroom door, touching her neck. She made hasty nod. Illya closed the door; the latch was broken but it stayed, and switched the light on. He took the armchair from the corner and turned it away from the door and the body leaning against the wall near it and guided Gaby to sit. He squatted next to her and gently lifted her chin. Her neck was red but she seemed otherwise intact. She breathed evenly although it was shallow and quick. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Gaby sighed and swallowed when the words came out husky and with difficulty. “Just scared. I’m fine.”

Illya pointed to the rose on the floor and reminded her about the bug that was there and that somebody was listening them and Gaby nodded. He got up and filled a glass from the bathroom tap. Gaby’s hand trembled when she took the glass. She sipped the water, coughed, but drank it all. Her hands shook even more when the glass was empty. Illya took it from her and Gaby clenched her hands into fists and opened them again.

“I can’t get it to stop,” she muttered, frustrated and anxious, and stared at her shaking hands.

“It is the shock,” Illya said calmly even though his heart was pounding hard against his sternum. “It will pass. Everything is okay.”

Gaby turned to look at Illya who was so calm and talked with a steady voice. She nodded slightly and realised that she was trembling all over, not only her hands. She gazed at herself like she didn't realize what was happening even though Illya had said that it was the shock and it would pass. She didn't have any reason not to believe him.

Illya didn’t like to see her like that, scared and vulnerable. And the hand he had set on her knee felt like nothing. How could that useless tiny touch comfort her? If there ever was a situation to do what felt natural, even when it might be too much, this was it. Illya didn’t want to worry later had he done enough to comfort her. He stood up and pulled Gaby carefully to her shaky feet. He sat in the armchair himself and pulled Gaby into his lap. She didn’t seem to mind, she leaned against him, her arms rose to hug his shoulders and she pressed her face onto his neck. Illya hugged her back and held her close.

“Everything is fine,” he reassured her and rubbed her back slowly.

Gaby closed her eyes. She sighed against him and squeezed him a little tighter at first and relaxed then in his arms and let him hold her. When she finally opened her eyes she could see the man against the wall. She turned her head and snuggled it under Illya’s chin so she didn't have to see the man anymore. Illya set his palm protectively on the back of her head so that she wouldn’t look.

“Who was that?” Gaby asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Illya said. “Maybe I should have asked instead of killing him,” he muttered and felt he had maybe acted too hastily.

Maybe Illya was right, maybe he should've asked before killing him, but Gaby was still happy that he had only acted. His effectiveness calmed her. She pressed her face to his neck again, breathed in a broken lungfull of air and his scent. He smelled nice and felt so safe near her, just after killing a man and still so calm. It should've scared Gaby but it only made her feel safe. He was maybe able to thrust a knife between somebody's ribs so effortlessly easy, but it was hard to be scared when he made her feel so cared for, hold her close, assured her everything was fine. Gaby didn't understand why people only saw Illya as a weapon, why they saw only his seriousness and rigidness when he was full of soft spots and comfort. Maybe only she saw the caring side or maybe he only showed it to her. Either way it made Gaby feel herself very lucky. She was sure he would make a good husband for somebody if he ever get a chance at that.

Jealousy prickled her insides, traveled along her spine when she imagined somebody else sitting where she was sitting now. Somebody else was going to lean against Illya, press her face on his neck and inhale his scent. His arms would be wrapped around somebody else. Gaby took a deep breath against his skin, her other hand slid slowly down from his neck, fingers wrapped around his jacket's lapel. She didn't want to share Illya. He was hers. She was going to keep him forever.

At least that was how she felt at that moment. There was no doubt in her mind. Her heart was still pounding fast but it was slowly calming down. She was still scared, shocked and relieved. And Illya was warm and strong against her and his neck smelled so good. Gaby wanted to open his tie and collar, inhale the scent from inside his shirt. She slid her nose against his cheek, right in front of his ear, slowly up.

Illya swallowed when Gaby’s face brushed against his face. Her touch felt good. She leaned closer, pulled him against her from his lapels. He knew they wouldn't be alone too long. The bug in the rose smashed against the floor had made sure of that. Somebody had probably left to come before he had kicked the door in. But for now they were still alone. Maybe Gaby was only in shock and this was her way to calm herself down, but if that was the case then who was Illya to stop her. He turned his head, took some distance so he could see her. Gaby stared at him, her eyes burned on his. Illya tilted his head and gave her chance to follow through if she wanted.

Their lips brushed against each other before Gaby pressed herself properly against him, opened her lips, kissed him, spread her fingers on his jaw and cheek. Her warm mouth covered his, her tongue licked boldly his tongue, it took his breath away and made him want to remove his jacket to cool down. It was suddenly very warm.

Illya’s hands moved on her back, one down, lower than he had touched her when he had carried her to the bed in Rome. The other hand climbed up, to the back of her neck, touched carefully. There was not single thought in Gaby’s mind. There was only her kiss with Illya; she kissed him, he kissed her back, deliciously hungrily, made her skin go goosebumps.

Illya let Gaby press his back against the armchair. She kissed passionately, made his palms sweat against her back. Her tongue rubbed against his and everything felt slow and so warm; like there was a bonfire inside of him. His heart pounded fast for a very different reason than earlier. Now it pounded with excitement and passion.

From somewhere under the pulsating lust he could hear footsteps, a rapid pace, more than one person. He pulled his lips off from Gaby only when the door opened, slowly and carefully. She tried to linger and made a sad little sigh when Illya pulled away. But he couldn't get far from her, not when she was sitting on his lap, not that he really wanted to anyway. He couldn’t kiss her anymore but his hands were still around her, keeping her close and safe even when there was nothing to keep her safe from.

“It is me,” Vasiliy said when he entered the apartment. Behind him were two other men. Probably the same he had brought with him to Illya’s apartment. He looked at the man slumped against the wall, his brows were deeply knitted, mouth pressed into a tight line.

Illya turned back to Gaby. Her face was close. Her cheek were blushed and her lips rosy and plump after kissing, still glistening, a little parted, begging to be kissed again. His heart was beating still faster than normal and he could feel her kiss on his lips.

“Are you okay, куколка?” Vasiliy asked.

Gaby nodded absently. “Yes,” she said because right then and there she felt very much okay with Illya so close. She could feel the warmth of her cheeks, she was out of breath and couldn’t say was it the shock or Illya’s kiss. She could taste him when she licked her lips.

“What are you doing here? Right now?” Illya asked tensely when he realized it was probably good to ask that even when he knew the reason. His hands moved on Gaby’s waist, to take a better hold of her.

“We have been listening to this apartment,” Vasiliy confessed. “For cautions. I am sure you understand,” he said. “Your apartment we cannot, because you check it every few days, but here you did not,“ he continued and pointed to the rose and the broken pot on the floor.

Illya huffed. “I am the one you are making business. Why are you listening to her?”

Gaby tried to observe the situation but her mind wandered, she couldn’t keep her focus. She turned her face back to Illya and looked at him. He was the only one who interested her. His jaw was tight when he talked. He used English probably because of her even when she understood most of the Russian she heard. His accent was thick and words came out of him husky and sharp like he was annoyed. Gaby wanted to think it was because they had been interrupted. It was easy to believe when his hand pressed on her back and he looked like he needed to force himself to watch Vasiliy instead of her. His brows were furrowed and his body under her was tense. Her fingers brushed his neck because she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to touch him. She needed to touch. Softy she brushed his hair. Her whole body felt like pudding against Illya. She had to force herself to keep from leaning in and kissing his neck. She wanted to taste his skin, feel the coarse stubble on her lips.

“You know very well that you and Gaby are in this together,” Vasiliy said. “You are getting married and that means we are in business with both of you.”

Illya hummed, displeased, even though he wasn’t quite sure what Vasiliy had said. Gaby’s fingers burned on his neck. He turned to face her. The thought that he could've lost her slowly seeped into his mind. Before there had been things to do and then the kiss blurred everything but now he realized how close he had been to losing her. Her smile and skirt would've been the last memory of her alive. The kiss would've never happened. One minute later and there wouldn't be Gaby sitting on his lap now. She wouldn't touch him with her warm fingers, she wouldn’t look at him.

And yet she was. Practically stared at him, breathing heavily, and was so close Illya couldn't concentrate on anything else. He wanted everybody to leave. He wanted to be alone with Gaby. He wanted to trace her jawline with his lips. Kiss her carefully and slowly, savour every second with her. He wanted to be slow so he could properly feel her, her tongue against his tongue, taste her mouth, feel her teeth biting his lower lip gently. And there was no doubt in his mind that Gaby wanted that too. She held her gaze on him and looked like she was barely keeping herself from attacking him. She looked like out of breath prey, unsure and shivery, and still her eyes burned like a predator’s. She managed to be vulnerable and threatening all at the same time, and it was the most beautiful thing Illya had ever seen.

Vasiliy cleared his throat and woke Illya from his stare. Frowning, he turned to look at Vasiliy and huffed in annoyance: “Yes.” The expression on Vasiliy’s face told that it was not the answer he had expected from him. “Could you repeat that?” Illya asked. Gaby’s hand slid up from his nape against his head, her fingers twined in his hair.

“I said this looks like outside contractor,” Vasiliy said and pointed at the body. “I do not know who would hire somebody outside, let alone target Gaby. I do not think it is the Yugoslavs for once. I am meeting the head of their organisation in few days. They would not do this when that is agreed. And they would use one of their own.”

Illya listened, catching a word here, another there: Yugoslavs, outside contractor. It seemed pretty standard. Gaby leaned close and her nose touched his temple.

“I do not want Gaby to be here alone until the place is fixed,” Vasiliy said.

“Yes,” Illya muttered absent-mindedly. His head was full of Gaby’s scent and the warmth she radiated. Her lap against his lap, her fingers in his hair. His palm smoothed slowly up from the small of her back.

“She will stay in our house,” Vasiliy decided. “I want to personally make sure nothing is happening to her.”

Gaby’s fingers grabbed Illya’s lapel. She fought back the urge to pull him close from those and smother him with kisses, devour him.

“You go pack up some of your things, куколка,” Vasiliy urged. “They will sort out everything here,” he said and glanced at the two man he had brought with him. In his mind there were four things in life you should never skimp: a tailor, vodka, caviar, and the people you hired to dispose of bodies. In everything else you could stretch, but never on those. A cheap tailor made you only rags and cheap henchmen would get caught. He paid his people well and the two sturdily built men standing near the door, waiting for the rest of them to leave so they could get started, were best you could get with your money. They made sure that the bodies there were never to been seen again. “You do not have to worry about anything.”

“What?” Illya breathed out and had to tear himself away from Gaby’s eyes when Vasiliy kept talking.

“She cannot stay here,” Vasiliy repeated more patiently than he thought Illya really deserved. In any other situation he would've already grunted at him, ordered him to pay attention to him and stop staring at his fiancée like a lovesick fool. But then the situation was what it was, bruises had started to appear on Gaby’s neck. So he could understand why it was more important to stare at Gaby than listen to him. He himself had once been the same lovesick fool who had been staring at a pretty girl like looking away would cause physical pain.

“Of course not,” Illya protested, frowning. “She will come with me.”

“No, she will stay at my house,” Vasiliy repeated. “You will come too if you need to be with her,” he continued when Illya looked immediately displeased. “But I will make sure myself she is safe.”

Illya didn’t bother to fight back. Vasiliy’s voice said that the decision was already made and he didn’t want to argue in front of Gaby who only just had calmed down.

“We will take care of you,” Vasiliy said and smiled paternally at Gaby, who had turned her face to him.

She smiled a small smile back because that was what she was supposed to do. Finally Gaby and Illya started to move. He let his arm to loosen around her and her fingers slipped away from Illya’s neck, leaving it cool. She stood up carefully, Illya pushed her slightly so it was easier. She wondered how her legs even carried her, it felt like she didn't have kneecaps at all. She glanced around the apartment and wondered when she had removed her jacket, then noticed that she was already wearing it. When they left, Illya guided her out of the door, past the body, his hand on her waist. They left somebody else to deal with that.

 

***

 

Zoya met Gaby as soon a she stepped in. She looked worried, helped her jacket off. “Oh, you poor thing,” she sighed she looked at her neck. “Are you okay? This is horrible.” She pulled Gaby into a hug.

“I’m fine,” Gaby assured her. Being hugged by Zoya felt odd. She didn’t remember when was the last time she had hugged anybody other than Illya. She couldn't even remember had she hugged Napoleon. She should, she reminded herself. And then he could mock her for being sappy and she would roll her eyes and that would be nice. But now it was Zoya hugging her, and her hug wasn’t some polite gesture; her arms covered her back and her palm set gently on the back of her head like Illya’s. It was nice and Gaby didn’t even mind her heavy perfume. “I worry how big bruises I’m going to get. I don’t think those go well with white silk.”

Zoya let her go and held her at arm’s length. “Do not worry about that,” she said. “You will be beautiful bride no matter what. And you have a week to get better.” She stepped closer, wrapped her arm around Gaby’s shoulders and guided her farther into the house. “We will make you some tea. Strong and sweet. You will feel better after that.”

“Drink is what the girl needs,” Vasiliy said tightly, as if tea could help anything. “I will get her one.”

By the time Illya came around after going by his apartment they were all in the kitchen. It was cosy and felt somehow much safer than the elegant living-room or the dining room. They were just ordinary people, seated around simple wooden table, just the three of them. There was no help, Zoya was the one who made the tea, took the cups and plates herself out of the cupboard. Gaby hadn't seen them so casual before. She had a cup of strong tea, sweetened with honey and raspberry jam. Vasiliy poured her a stiff vodka.

He poured one for Illya also when he sat next to Gaby. “Or would you prefer tea?”

Illay shook his head and looked at Gaby. She seemed better. There was colour on her cheeks without her being flushed and her hand was was steady when she lifted her drink and reached for the almond cookie Zoya offered. Frightened Gaby was gone; she didn't try to grab him or stare at him like that was the only thing she could do. It was good, Illya wanted her to be like this. He preferred the Gaby who didn’t need him to act as a crutch. And it wasn't only him; the Illya who was marrying her would also like to see her strong again and wouldn't coddle her. Not in front of everybody at least. He had done that already and now he felt embarrassed.

So they sat next to each other, Illya touching her shoulder once, but otherwise they simply stayed close. He set his hand on her waist when they left the kitchen, but didn’t let it linger.

“The room is probably bugged,” Illya muttered before they stepped in. Gaby glanced at him quickly, but didn’t bother to nod, he knew she had understood.

Like rest of the house, the guest room Zoya wasn't sure was good enough was very fancy. Carpets were thick and soft, everything in the en-suite was jade green marble. It wasn't subtle elegance that didn't look expensive even when it was; everything looked very expensive without apologizing. Illya checked the table lamps, a few other bits here and there, the back of the paintings hanging near the bed. Gaby watched his doings. Illya set one of the paintings back against the wall and nodded to her. He didn't bother to look more. Today he would pretend to be too occupied because of Gaby to think somebody bugged the room. Tomorrow he would go through it and return all the microphones to Vasiliy. They didn't talk that much, unpacked their things, washed up, changed into pajamas.

Gaby crawled on the bed and lifted her chin. “Is it bad?” she asked.

“No,” Illya asured. “But it will probably look worse tomorrow in daylight.”

Gaby curled under the duvet, set it better on top on her. Illya came next to her, turned the lights off. Gaby rolled on her side and Illya looked at the back of her neck. Her hair was scattered on the pillow and she gathered it in her hand with one easy roll of her wrist, twisted the hair around her fingers and flopped the strands over the upper edge of her pillow. Her neck was visible in the dark room, but the bruises didn’t show.

Illya felt powerless. Gaby was supposed to be in the background. And yet she was the one being targeted. Not any of the Dragomirovs, not Vasiliy, none of his brothers, not even Illya himself. But Gaby, who had nothing to do with the business. He still didn't feel like she was safe even when she was lying next to him in the bed. Her kisses were crystal clear in his mind but right now he didn't need any of those, he just wanted feel like she was safe. And the kisses were Gaby’s way to cope with the shock and now her back was turned to him and there was no sign that she wanted any kisses from him. At least for now. That was as much as Illya could say.

For a while he watched her neck and back and listened to her breathing. Then he moved closer to her, pulled her gently against him. If Gaby didn't want that she was brave enough to say it out loud.

Illya’s sudden touch surprised Gaby. He was so close his breath warmed her neck. His body was tense and Gaby was sure it was because he waited for her to ask him what he was doing or order him to back off. She set her hand over his arm so he would know it was good that he was there. Gaby liked Illya so close. He was warm and comforting and she felt safe even when there was nothing to be scared of.

Earlier his kiss had been comforting. Something to do in order to release the shock. The comfort coming from that had started to wear off and the situation began to make sense in her mind. It wasn’t a series of weird happenings, but one cohesive moment. She felt chills on her spine when she realized how close a call it had been. She wouldn't be here right now if Illya hadn’t come when he did. Clumsily Gaby turned herself over on the bed, Illya lifted his hand away when he didn't know what she was doing, but set it back over her when Gaby curled against his chest. His other arm bent under her neck, wrapped around her head, the other hung over her waist, fingers softly brushing her back. He allowed his chin to press onto her forehead when she didn’t seem to mind.

“Thank you for coming back,” Gaby mumbled so that her words almost disappeared on Illya’s t-shirt.

“That is what I am supposed to do, yes?” he muttered back.

“Yes,” Gaby sighed and tilted her head so it was easier to talk.

”I am glad that you are okay,” Illya said.

Gaby knew that was between her and Illya, the real Illya. Now she switched to being the fiancée she was playing to whomever was listening to them. “I’m embarrassed to think what they have heard while listening my apartment,” she said. “Luckily we haven't done anything in there.”

“Your bed is too narrow,” Illya pointed out and played along. “We don’t fit there side by side.”

“It wasn't a problem after we had that horrible meal in that Italian restaurant,” Gaby said and made up history as she went. “You were still so angry when we got back to my apartment. Then we fit both in just fine,” she said lightly. “But then we weren't side by side.”

The corners of Illya’s mouth twitched.

“Do you remember?” Gaby asked softly, her cheek against Illya’s collarbone. She almost felt like she did remember; the springs had squeaked, made her smile. She had straddled him, pressed her palms on his chest, make good the bad evening for him. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to. The memory was so clear it felt real.

“Yes,” Illya said.

“That was the second time you proposed,” Gaby reminded him.

“Was it really?” Illya muttered. He had almost forgotten how he had allegedly proposed Gaby three times before she had expected.

“Naked,” Gaby sighed. “You were saying such beautiful things that it felt bad to say _no_ to you.”

Illya shook his head but there was still the hint of a smile on his lips even when he tried to be not amused by Gaby’s stories.

“You also said that you wouldn’t propose third time, because I already said _no_ twice,” Gaby said.

“That I remember,” Illya muttered and closed his eyes. “Ungrateful woman.”

Gaby hummed and smiled. Illya’s fingers played with her hair and she was sure he didn't even realize he was doing it. “But you still did,” she pointed out.

“It was temporary moment of weakness,” Illya claimed. “There was not going to be a fourth time.”

“Then I’m happy I said _yes_ then,” Gaby muttered and closed her eyes. She corrected her position and settled little more snugly against him.

Illya’s lips were pressed against her forehead. The arm bending under Gaby’s neck stroked slowly her hair, flipped the locks in his fingers lazily. “I would have proposed hundred times,” he muttered softly.

His touch and Gaby resting against him warped everything. Reality melted together with the make-believe. Suddenly Gaby’s stories felt real, all the made-up memories came to life;  the two of them lying on her narrow bed, he claiming he wouldn't be proposing again. Gaby’s laugh when she didn't believe him and Illya moping, knowing inside that she was right. He had pulled his shirt on, started buttoning it up. She had grabbed the shirt and yanked him back to bed, the shirt had ripped, she had opened the buttons and kissed him. He had known that he would propose to her as many times as was necessary.

Gaby didn't know any more which Gaby she was; was she there on a mission or was she there to get married? Both her sides seemed to want Illya. It was so easy to lie against him, let him play with her hair. “I was scared that I would never see you again,” Gaby confessed quietly. “I remember now It was what I thought just before you came back; that I would never see you again.”

Illya’s hand around Gaby took a better hold on her, his palm pressed against her back. He tilted his face against her hair and inhaled her scent. He stopped playing with her hair, instead cupping his hand against her skull, letting his fingers submerge between her brown tresses. He didn’t feel himself like a teammate, he felt like a fiancé.

All that had happened during the last few hours had drained Gaby’s strength. Alone she would have rolled on the bed, staring the ceiling anxiously, her head full of thoughts, unable to sleep even when she was exhausted. But with Illya there to calm her down, she fell asleep. He didn’t, he stayed up hours longer. He was happy that Gaby felt his closeness safe enough to relax and sleep. Her breathing was calm, his arm around her rose slightly alongside her ribcage. His fingers kept stroking her hair long after she had fallen asleep. Illya was calm and yet the feeling she still wasn’t completely safe was eating him from inside.

Gaby muttered in her sleep and Illya pressed a kiss on her forehead. His lips were already almost against it. Slowly he twisted lock of her hair around his index finger, before letting the twist open and starting again.

 

***

 

“Come in,” Napoleon encourage when someone knocked his door.

A woman with light brown hair and cardigan buttoned all the way up peeked carefully in and only then entered the room. “There’s someone here to see you, Reverend,” she told him. “It’s the…” she frowned and looked embarrassed, “well, the Russian groom. I can’t pronounce his name,” she confessed.

“It’s quite alright, Bernice,” Napoleon assured her. “Just let him in.”

“It’s a week to the wedding,” Bernice reminded him. “He looks very grim. Probably cold feet,” she whispered and Napoleon nodded like he knew exactly what she was saying.

Bernice nodded and left smiling. Illya came in and shut the door behind him.

Napoleon gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Did you want to talk about your vows?” he inquired cheerfully. “Or do you have questions about the wedding night? I can give you some tips,” he smirked.

“Someone tried to strangle Gaby yesterday. A hitman,” Illya said bluntly and didn't pay any attention to Cowboy’s jokes.

Napoleon frowned and his grin vanished. “Is she okay?” he wanted to know.

“Yes,” Illya asured. “Some bruises, luckily nothing more severe.” His voice was tense now that he wasn’t worried about her any more and was angry instead.  “Yugoslavian. Well Vasiliy says it is not them, but I think he is wrong. Why they targeted Gaby instead of any of the Dragomirovs or even me is beyond me. Vasiliy is dealing with this, but....”

“But what?” Napoleon asked.

“But they are slow,” Illya sighed. “No one is efficient enough. Instead of action, they will meet and talk about things. It is tiresome.”

“Do you want out?” Napoleon asked. He somehow hadn't thought Illya would ask something like that, but maybe Gaby being in danger made him softer than he had anticipated.

“What? No,” Illya huffed. “We can cope with this. I am here to inform you about it. Also we are currently staying with Dragomirovs.”

“That sounds safe,” Napoleon muttered sarcastically. “And when you say you can cope, what exactly does that mean?”

“I am not saying the Russians are not going to do anything. They are, people are going to die because of this. But everything happens so slowly. And I am not risking Gaby again,” Illya explained. “I know where the head of the Yugoslavs lives. I know what kind of security he has there; few guards in the yard, high fence, no dogs. It is not that big deal, not if you shoot from a distance.”

“Shoot who from a distance?” Napoleon asked. “The head of them?”

“Yes,” Illya said casually.

“You want to declare a war?” Napoleon huffed and his brows rose high when he looked at Peril and wasn’t sure was he being serious. “You really want Gaby in the middle of that?”

“The war is already going on. This would be one single strike,” Illya pointed out. “But by taking the head down their whole operation will be scattered for time being. They will fight each other and by the time they have organized their hierarchy our mission is probably already over. I do not care what happens after that. And it is not like the Russians are attacking them. They are not involved, not really. But right now there is probably someone there who just gave a hit order for Gaby. They did not succeed so it is probable they are striking again. Does that sound good to you?”

“No,” Napoleon said. “It’s a risky plan; to go there and just shoot somebody. Very public. What you are going to do if you are caught?”

“I won't get caught,” Illya said.

“Do you even have a rifle?” Napoleon asked.

“I am an arms dealer,” Illya sighed. “Of course I have a rifle.”

“Waverly wouldn't like this if this were to travel to his ears,” Napoleon pointed out. “He would say it is not our priority and not really part of the mission and that is what you should be focusing on.”

“And you are going to tell him?” Illya asked annoyed. He knew fully well that Cowboy would never do that.

Napoleon tilted his head. “No,” he muttered slowly and looked at Illya, estimating. “But now I’m wondering why would you risk that I would before going there. Why are you telling even me?”

Illya huffed, frustrated. It was the part of the conversation he knew was coming and which he didn't like. “It is… two-people operation,” he confessed.

Napoleon took a better position in his chair and grinned smugly. “So you came here to ask for help.”

“Well, I am not going to ask Gaby,” Illya remarked drily.

“Does she know?” Napoleon asked.

“No,” Illya said. “I would like to keep it like that.”

“Are you afraid that she would forbid you from going?” Napoleon smirked.

“I am afraid that she would want to come along,” Illya huffed. “She is maybe good but not this good. I need somebody there to clean the grounds and cover me so I can concentrate what I am doing. Someone who can create reasonable amount of distraction and handle his own. I do not want Gaby there and there is no reason why she should know about this beforehand or at all.”

Napoleon nodded understanding. “Well, it’s still very risky plan, very public, high chance of getting caught or being recognized.”

Illya frowned. His jaw tightened when he gritted his teeth and his whole face tensed up. He tried to keep Cowboy from noticing he was disappointed. “So you are not coming,” he said callously more than questioning.

“Of course I’m coming,” Napoleon huffed. “I’m just saying that it’s a risky plan. If we get caught and miraculously not get killed, I'm blaming it all on you.”

Illya made the tiniest nod. He wasn't going to let Cowboy see he was pleased he was coming. That would just give him the idea that Illya was trusting him and Cowboy was cocky enough without knowing that. And trusting him bothered Illya. In KGB if he had needed help, they had signed some new agent every time. Somebody whose name he didn't bother to learn, somebody who didn’t matter to him. In a sense; someone expendable. And now he found himself trusting the smug American whose name he knew even when he didn't use it. It made him uncomfortable to be so close to other people. He had got used to being alone and now he wasn’t anymore. He feared that all the trusting and caring made him weaker and he wasn’t efficient enough. If he had the courage say that out loud to Gaby, she would tell him that she felt like it was the complete opposite and he had nothing to fear. But he wasn't ready to say something like that. No yet anyway.

Napoleon crossed his arms on his chest and sighed when he looked at Peril under his brows. “This is going to be world's most depressing bachelor party, isn’t?” He shook his head and Illya glared at him.


	7. Stag night

Wind rustled the tree branches. The night was cold and Napoleon’s breath was steaming. He climbed on top of a high stone wall and lifted his night vision glasses to his eyes. Slowly he glanced through the yard and picked up his radio transmitter. “I can see one in the southwest corner and two in the southeast.”

“There is a fourth. In between,” Illya said to his transmitter as he watched through his scope across the yard.

“There’s shrubbery and trees,” Napoleon muttered. “That must hide him.” He watch little time longer and made his plan. “I will deal with the single ones, let you know and make the diversion then.”

“Fine,” Illya said and put the transmitter back to his belt. Cowboy wouldn't need him to answer anymore before it was all over. He corrected his body on top of the wide wall more comfortably. The darkness hid him; somebody had broken all the streetlamps around that corner of the wall. Illya didn’t know who, but he knew Cowboy had paid for that with candy bars. Illya watch him moving in the dark, keeping near the wall. Illya turned his rifle towards the house and left Cowboy on his own. It was two AM and all the windows of the big house were dark. He aimed at the upstairs windows and waited. Draško Mitrović, the head of the Yugoslav organisation, was still sleeping.

Napoleon waited while the guard was looking for something in his pockets. A golden glow illuminated his face when he lit a cigarette and cupped his hands to cover the flame. Napoleon put his gun away; he didn't want to risk the other guard hearing the swish the silencer would make. He didn't see him yet and he could be closer than he estimated. He took a careful step closer to the guard near him, the man turned his back to Napoleon and he took advantage of that. He was already close, it took only three steps to get behind the man and wrap his arm around his neck. Napoleon pulled the arm firmly against him, his elbow bent firmly under his chin and his other hand set it in its place. The man struggled but Napoleon was taller and his grip held well. He didn't struggle too long and Napoleon let him slump to the ground. He didn't check to see if the man was dead, he didn't need him to be; unconscious was enough.

Quietly he continued on his way, staying close to the wall where the shadows hid him. He took his gun back in his hand and stopped to listen. Napoleon only noticed the guard Illya had told him would be there when he was behind him; a big bush covered him from the other side of the yard. This time he knew where the last two guards were and that they couldn't hear the sound of the silencer from there. He aimed and shot the man before he ever knew he was there. Napoleon had always thought that was a good way to go; no pain, no fear. It was all over in the blink of an eye, you never knew it was coming. Napoleon himself hoped to go in his seventies, preferably while some twenty-five year-old was straddling him.

He took the radio from his belt. “I’m ready. Let me know if you’re not,” he muttered and set the transmitter back. He didn't expect Peril to answer or let him know he wasn't ready. There wasn't any reason why he wouldn't be ready.

Napoleon screwed the silencer off his weapon, shoved it into his pocket. He glanced both ways across the dark yard and then at the sleeping house. The two guards were behind him and more would probably come out of the house when he started. Napoleon aimed and shot towards the house three times, shattering the living-room windows. The gunshot echoed inside the tall walls. Napoleon let the nearest tree and its shadow hide him while he waited for the two guards to come to him.

Illya looked through his scope when the house woke up; lights appeared in windows, the side door opened, human voices were shouting.

Napoleon let the guards from the southeast corner run past him in the dark. He aimed and shot the other one in the leg. The man cried and dropped down. The other one aimed his gun and fired blindly somewhere near the wall. Napoleon ducked down and rolled his eyes. It felt stupid that he was getting shot at in Peril’s operation. Luckily he had the shrubbery to cover him; the guard was left without cover on the grass. He aimed at his leg and shot him down. Napoleon glanced toward the house and the illuminated windows, estimating was the right man already looking through the windows to see what was happening in the yard. That little moment was enough for the guard he had shot to attack him. The gun dropped from his hand when he was tackled to the ground.

Illya’s finger was ready on the trigger and his breath was calm. The noises from the yard made him glance quickly aside from the scope to see what was happening. A few men came out from the open side door, guns in their hands. Illya checked that nothing was happening in the upstairs windows and grabbed his night vision goggles to check what Cowboy was doing.

He sighed, frustrated, and shook his head slightly while he watched one of the Yugoslavs hit Cowboy. Of course someone was hitting him. He looked back at the house and saw the other two guards heading in his direction too. He set the goggles down and clenched his teeth while he grabbed the rifle and aimed at the guards approaching Cowboy. He needed Mitrović to come to the window very soon. He would give away his position when he fired and he didn't have much time after that. He would rather not give his position away, but there were more people in the yard than there was supposed to be and Cowboy had only a shrubbery for cover. Illya shot the two guards approaching Cowboy, but left the originals to him and turned back to aim at the house.

Finally there was light in the upstairs windows.The curtains were pulled aside and a young woman in a see-through dressing gown looked outside. The intel given by the Russians said that Mitrović had a taste for local prostitutes. Somebody immediately pulled the woman away. Illya could imagine how Mitrović yelled at her for opening the curtains and possibly getting herself killed. That was what Illya would’ve done. But then Gaby knew that would be a stupid thing to do so he wouldn’t need to. And Mitrović was right; someone was aiming at the windows and waiting to pull the trigger. But Illya was experienced enough to not shoot the first person appearing, but to wait for the actual target.

He grunted in annoyance when a shot was fired near him. Now they knew where he was. He couldn't see who was firing, only that it came from near the house. The Yugoslavs had learned not to go to the yard anymore. Illya had to trust that the darkness was covering him. Another shot hit the wall less than foot away and made him jerk just enough he noticed it himself and was annoyed to do so. He was guessing whoever was shooting didn't wear night vision goggles. If they did, they would’ve already hit him. Now they were just blindly shooting into the darkness.

Illya tried to remain calm, he stared at the upstairs windows, finger on the trigger, and waited. Somebody fired a gun in the yard and he hoped it was Cowboy. Gaby would never forgive him if he got him killed.

Napoleon pushed the limp man off of him and crawled back up. He was panting and when he licked the corner of his mouth he tasted blood. The other guard tried to get up, but he was wounded and tired. Napoleon grabbed his collar and hit him in the face. “Americans send their regards,” he grunted, out of breath, and hit him again. He let go of his collar and let him flop on the ground. Napoleon set his hands on his hips, took a deep breath, and stretched his neck. He would have to explain to Peril what he considered an easy operation.

Shots were fired from the house. First Napoleon cowered near the wall but noticed then they weren't shooting at him, but probably at Peril. He sighed and looked through his goggles who was shooting and from where. He fired, but was out of breath and didn't hit to kill. But at least the man had stopped shooting, so that was enough.

Despite the chilly night Illya was sweating under his clothes. He wiped his upper lip and could taste the saltiness. Mitrović appeared from the side of the window and looked down in the yard where the gunshots had stopped. He looked angry and annoyed, but not really worried. Illya’s face relaxed when he exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger. In the blink of an eye the window was broken and the man disappeared. He could hear the woman screaming through the broken window. Quickly he detached the rifle from its outriggers, stuffed all in a bag and slid down from the wall. He disappeared in his black clothes into the shadows the wall was casting.

Police sirens started to echo somewhere in the distance and Illya took a few running steps. He turned to a narrow alley and after ten minutes walking along the dark streets away from the scene he stopped near the channel. Illya descended the stone step down close to the waterline and walked along the overhang boats were attached to. He sat down on a wooden bench set against the stone barrier to catch his breath.

He heard footsteps against the stone and his hand automatically jerked to his pocket to grab his gun. Illya had to tell himself to let go and relax. He looked at the channel; the water was very still.

“How am I supposed to explain to Bernice tomorrow why I have a split lip?” Napoleon sighed when he sat next to Illya. His lip wasn't strictly split; there was only small cut. But he asked out of principal.

“Say you were involved in a religious debate that escalated,” Illya suggested. “I had to stop what I was doing so you did not get yourself killed,” he pointed out.

“And I needed to shoot somebody who was shooting at you,” Napoleon remarked.

“He was not very good,” Illya muttered.

Napoleon shook his head.

“Did you make them think that was Americans back there?” Illya asked.

Napoleon hummed as an answer. “Still I feel we could’ve chosen some other nation to blame,” he commented and glanced at Illya quickly, slightly displeased, and leaned his head then against the barrier and gazed at the dark water. “Next time I would suggest more women in skimpy outfits and some high quality liquor. Less shooting and people punching me.”

“What next time”? Illya asked.

“The next bachelor party,” Napoleon said. “Maybe we should be like normal people and hire a room at some club,” he pondered and watched the surroundings, “or a boat. That one looks nice.”

Illya glanced lazily at the boat Cowboy was nodding towards. “There is a very high chance that someone is going to get thrown overboard if we hire a boat,” Illya said. “And I would say that it is probably you. I am seventy-five, eighty percent sure of that.”

Napoleon nodded. Strangely he was agreeing.

Illya frowned. “And who is getting married? You?”

Napoleon snorted. “Funny. No, I’m not. It’s still going to be your stag night. I’m just saying it could be more traditional.”

“Oh I am getting married,” Illya muttered. “It is great that you know that,” he continued sarcastically.

“To be honest I think you should just do it now when all the arrangements are made,” Napoleon said. “I don’t have the permit to marry anybody but I still have time, I could get one. We can even continue on this path where Gaby doesn't know things before they happen. I’m sure she would be delighted to find out only afterwards that you two are really married,” he grinned.

“If you mean delighted as in stabs us both in some vital organ then yes, she would be delighted,” Illya huffed. “Are you also forgetting that we are not really getting married?”

“I’m just trying to help,” Napoleon assured him, shrugged his shoulders, and continued grinning. “You know I will find out about those permits and you can decide before the ceremony do you want to marry her.”

“No,” Illya muttered and leaned forward. He rested his arms on his thighs and hung his head a bit to stretch his neck.

“My opinion is -”

“No one asked your opinion,” Illya muttered.

“My opinion is,” Napoleon continued regardlessly, “that if you two have trouble remembering that you aren't marrying for real you should maybe marry for real. Also I would be a great best man, don’t try to take it away from me.”

Illya rolled his eyes and lifted his head. “I can’t take away anything that is not yours,” he pointed out, bored.

“Maybe if you keep telling that to yourself it will make it real,” Napoleon smirked. He leaned his back against the barrier and decided to rest few more minutes before leaving. “Otherwise you should just marry her, it’s easier.”

 

***

 

In the morning Illya stepped into the kitchen at the Dragomirovs and found Gaby there alone. “Morning,” he greeted and Gaby turned to look at him. He walked to her and sat beside her. He could see it immediately from her sharp eyes; she knew what he had been doing during the night.

“Did you already hear?” Gaby asked very politely.

Illya nodded. “Vasiliy called six in the morning,” he said and act like neither of them had any idea what had happened. “So someone attacked the Yugoslavs. I thought Vasiliy had a meeting with that man tomorrow.”

“Well, not anymore,” Gaby said. “The house has been full of people all morning, since before dawn. I woke up at five. You probably slept better at your place,” she said a little sarcastically. She was continuing but closed her mouth when they were interrupted.

Vasiliy marched into the kitchen, he seemed tense, holding an empty tea glass with a silver holder. “Illya, excellent,” he noticed, grabbed the teapot from the kitchen counter and poured tea into his glass. “Did you ever choose a bad night to be away! Can you believe the Americans?” he huffed and shook his head. “They were blaming us at first, but then one of their own remembered that somebody talked to him and he had an American accent. I can not believe this.” He muttered something to himself in Russian and put honey in his tea. “And Anatoly is not here and he was supposed to go through the deal he is making tomorrow,” he added, clearly annoyed.

“Where is he?” Illya asked. “He insisted on handling this deal by himself.”

“He says he is sick,” Vasiliy snorted and shook his head again. “I have no time for this. He is out of this deal,” Vasiliy announced and stirred his tea so vigorously Gaby was sure he would shatter the glass with his spoon.

“Since when?” Illya asked.

“Since now,” Vasiliy grunted. “Everything is out of order and I need everybody to do what they were supposed to do. I do not have the time nor the patience for incompetent people to do business under my name. He is out, you will handle this. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Illya asured. “Of course. I just don’t like to step on anybody's toes.”

Vasiliy glanced at him and a grin flashed on his lips. “That is what you say,” he muttered. “Let's go to my study to go through this. And I think I like to come along to see. It is always risky to change people in a middle of a deal,” he said and gestured to Illya to join him.

Gaby cleared her throat slightly, looked at Vasiliy, and tilted her head.

Vasiliy paused and pointed his finger at her. “Two minutes. We have business to handle. You will have two minutes.”

“I promise,” Gaby said and smiled sweetly when Vasiliy winked at her.

Illya frowned after him and turned to Gaby. “What is this? Do you have some sort of schedule for me?”

“Of course,” Gaby claimed. “How else would you keep everybody happy?”

Illya hummed and took Gaby's toast she had taken a few bites from and took his own bite from it.

“So,” Gaby sighed. “Did you sleep well without me?” she asked and tilted her head inquisitively.

Illya buttered the whole slice toast because Gaby only did it bite by bite, and continued eating it. She was maybe saying things all soft and sweet but he could hear the sharp undertone in her voice.

“Were you restless?” Gaby asked. “Maybe you took a little midnight stroll,” she continued and her other brow arched high. “Maybe with a rifle.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Illya claimed and started to stand up.

Gaby’s quick hand grabbed his collar and yanked him back to face her. “Yes, you do,” she said sharply but quietly. “That was dangerous.”

Illya looked at her face, her brown eyes and little tight mouth. “Everything went well.”

“You should’ve told me beforehand,” Gaby said.

“I did not want to worry you,” Illya sighed.

“You didn't want me to come with you,” Gaby pointed out. “Why would you do that?”

“You know why,” Illya said.

Gaby huffed in annoyance and stared at him. She wanted to be angry, but it was hard when she knew Illya had done it for her and didn't even try to deny it. She pulled him closer by his tie, leaned in and pressed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. Slowly she pulled away, but only as far she needed to be able to see his face. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You are welcome,” Illya muttered. She may have pulled away, but not that much and she was still holding his tie and keeping him from pulling away. It was nice. And it was unnerving.

“You need to go,” Gaby muttered. “My two minutes are up.”

Illya glanced down, took hold of his tie and plucked it gently from her grasp.

Gaby’s gaze shifted from his eyes and her fingers let go. “Sorry,” she muttered, but her lips curved into little grin.

 

***

 

Illya watched wooden crates full of weapons being loaded into a van. He had sold weapons before. The crates had been taken away before by some criminals and he had been left with the money, sometimes it had been the otherway around. But the scale of everything was very different. There were three vans full of crates, more money than ever. The quiet men he had made his deal with shook first his hand and then Vasiliy’s. His sturdy henchmen stood somewhere in the background. The cars drove off.

Vasiliy snapped his fingers and gestured towards the brown leather bags on the floor. One of his men collected two of those and walked out of the warehouse, the other following him. Vasiliy grabbed the third and last bag and handed it to Illya, who frowned slightly and hesitated taking it. This wasn’t part of the deal.

“You can think of it as a wedding gift,” Vasiliy said. “Soon you’ll have a wife. They are expensive things to have.”

Illya took the bag.

“They seemed pleased,” Vasiliy said and nodded at the big open door where the vans had disappeared. “That is good. It’s risky to change dealers in the middle of the business.”

“Anatoly had his reasons not to come,” Illya said like he didn't want to take credit.

“I don't care about his reasons,” Vasiliy said. “He hasn’t been anything but unprofessional lately. I’m starting to think that he is not suited to this position. Maybe you should be in his place.”

Illya nodded lightly and kept his face neutral. “If you think I would be better.”

Vasiliy snorted. “You are not as subtle as you think you are. You may say you do what's best for the organisation, but you will act on what is best for you. You and Gaby, that I’m happy to see,” Vasiliy noted. “I’m not saying there's nothing bad about being ambitious, quite the contrary, but don't try to claim that you are not here for your own interests.”

Illya’s jaw tightened when he didn't know what to say. He had reminded Gaby over and over again how Vasiliy hadn’t got where he was by being nice and then he himself had thought that he could just maneuver the old man as he wanted by simultaneously being a little arrogant and staying calmly in the background.

“Don't let this go to your head,” Vasiliy warned tightly. “You are not best for this. You are good, but not the best. But you are the most sensible choice of those who I have.”

Illya tried not to frown. He wanted to huff and say Vasiliy was wrong; he was the best he had.

“You are young and with that comes characteristics you either grow out or don't,” Vasiliy continued. “If not, I have no use for you. You are efficient yes, but too short-tempered. Sometimes it’s good to be patient.”

Illya nodded. “Of course,” he assured even when he was disagreeing.

“Sometimes it’s good to take your time and evaluate the situation instead just letting the testosterone push you faster ahead,” Vasiliy said and looked at Illya’s nods; he was almost smiling when he didn't agree with him but was arrogantly polite anyway.

Illya hummed and nodded again. He felt Vasiliy talked to him like he was a schoolboy. He didn't see his fist before it had struck his cheekbone. It was hard and fast and hit him like a battering ram. The bag dropped from his hand. He staggered and collapsed on the dusty concrete floor.

“Americans!” Vasiliy shouted. “I don't know how you made the Yugoslavs think that but the whole business reeks of you!”

Illya pressed his palms against the floor and pushed himself to sit. He stared at Vasiliy frantically. He didn’t remember when was the last time somebody had struck him down in one blow. And Vasiliy who he had thought of as an old man had done it so easily. Illya’s cheekbone felt like it was in flames and he felt very much like a schoolboy only seconds after thinking how stupid it was that Vasiliy was talking to him like he was such. Illya was sure both of his cheeks were burning red from shame, he didn't even want to get up. Vasiliy hovered over him, not as tall as Illya himself, but he was robust and right now he looked like a angry bear who was ready to rip him apart.

“I understand that they targeted Gaby,” Vasiliy growled. “Or someone did. I still don't believe the Yugoslavs did it. And we should’ve waited to see who really was the one deserving what was coming to them. Not just attack the first people that popped into your head like a hurricane. I understand you are angry, believe me. I don't want anything happening to Gaby. That is why she is living with us. We have the security and manpower to keep her safe.”

“So had the Yugoslavs,” Illya blurted, angry and embarrassed. “And I shot their leader straight through the window.”

Vasiliy huffed and shook his head. “Ridiculous, risky plan. All it would take was one guard to be better and you would've never come back. Who do you think would have to tell Gaby about that?” Vasiliy asked tightly. “How do you think she would react if that happened?  How do you think she would feel when you act like unbalanced teenager and get yourself killed?”

Illya lowered his gaze, shamed. He had been that unbalanced teenager. Now he feared he might never have grown out of it.

“I know you think my way of working is old fashioned. But sometimes that’s better than to act without thinking,” Vasiliy grunted even as his anger was starting to wear off. “This maybe works now, but at some point the Yugoslavs will realize that Americans didn't do that, but us.”

“I did,” Illya reminded. “You didn't -”

“You are with us,” Vasiliy interrupted him firmly. “We are now all involved. And at some point this all has to be resolved. You should look ashamed, because that is what we are now,” Vasiliy huffed. “Didn't your father teach you to be patient?”

“I... don't remember,” Illya breathed out, frustrated.

Vasiliy sighed and stepped closer. “Get up,” he ordered strictly but reached his hand to Illya and pulled him up. “Next time you are planning to do something as stupid as this, don’t,” he warned and stared at him.

Illya tried to look back, but his gaze wandered when he was too ashamed to look him in the eye.

“And if you actually do do something that stupid ever again,” Vasiliy continued, talking quietly which made it all just more unsettling. “It's not going to be this easy. Next time I will break your arm. And all five fingers from that. One by one. It will be slow so that you remember never to do that again,” he explained meticulously. “And I will bring Gaby there.”

Illya glanced at him quickly under his brows and clenched his hands into tight fists. For the first time he saw behind Vasiliy’s easily approachable personality and got a glimpse of the man who was the head of the Russian mafia. He swallowed and felt the lump in his throat.

“She will be unharmed but she will have to watch when I do it,” Vasiliy explained. “Do you want her to see that?”

“No,” Illya muttered.

“In that case you should learn some patience,” Vasiliy said. His big hand grabbed Illya’s jaw and he turned his head to see the cheekbone his fist had struck. “I don't think that will look too bad. I’m going to get into trouble if you don't look presentable at your wedding day.”

Illya swallowed again when Vasiliy let go of his face. He understood the only reason he was struck only once and left able to walk right now was because Zoya didn't want anything to ruin the wedding. He slowly brushed his jacket; there was dust on the sleeves and he knew the back and his trousers were dusty too.

Vasiliy bent and grabbed the money bag from the floor and handed it back to Illya. He clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him forward. “We are good now. But God help you if do that again,” Vasiliy said and his tone was much lighter again. “Now, how you use your money is up to you. But know that how you use it the first time you get a big bonus is the way you’ll be expected to act all the other times as well. If you buy Gaby something expensive, you will need to do that every time there is a bonus.”

“Right,” Illya muttered carefully. Vasiliy was back to being like he usually was, but Illya was struggling to find his own subtle arrogance. He had let Vasiliy down and it bothered him even when he knew it shouldn’t. There was no reason to make him proud and still Illya noticed that was what he was trying to do. He wanted him to think that Illya was the best Vasiliy had. Someone who would get things done and who wouldn't cause trouble, somebody Vasiliy could rely on. And now he had caused trouble, and felt stupid because of it.

Vasiliy nodded. “She won't say she expects you to act like the first time. But try and squirm your way out of it and you will notice that instead of your own bed you’ll be sleeping in the guest room. But nonetheless I would advise you to buy her something special,” Vasiliy said when they walked to the door. “It’s good to keep your wife happy. The business always seems to run more smoothly when your wife is pleased.”

Illya nodded a little and lifted his fingertips to touch his cheek. He could feel his heartbeat on it. He couldn't help but to check his fingers for blood. If Vasiliy had struck him with his left hand and with the same power, he would’ve ripped half his face off with his signet ring.

“And if your wife doesn't respect you how can you expect that from anybody else? And you can't force respect out of anybody, that you need to earn. Best way to that is to respect your wife back, but also keep her happy. And giving gifts makes that easier,” Vasiliy assured him and nodded as emphasis. “It’s going to be very expensive, of course, but it's worth it,” he shared his advice.

Illya stepped outside and despite the grey and rainy day had to narrow his eyes after the dimly lit warehouse. He jerked when Vasiliy grabbed his shoulder.

“And if you take a mistress and get caught, there is nothing that can help you,” Vasiliy sighed. “If she stabs you during the night you have brought that on yourself.”

 

***

 

Gaby examined her throat in the mirror. She tilted her head to see the side of her neck better in the light. The bruises had faded but she feared those would still show on the wedding day.

The seamstress poked her gently and Gaby turned in front of the mirror and looked down. The seamstress pinned ruffles on her hem and Gaby found herself frowning at the dress yet again. She had purposely looked at her neck so she didn't have to look the dress now that it had started to get its final form. She felt ridiculous wearing it.

“Is the lace coming on the back of the dress?” Zoya asked from the chair she was sitting in. She was flipping through a fashion magazine but was really observing what the seamstress was doing.

The seamstress hummed and nodded, pins between her lips.

“What lace?” Gaby asked. “There wasn’t going to be lace.”

“You have to have lace,” Zoya sighed. “It’s a wedding gown. It goes over the train.”

“Train,” Gaby repeated slowly and her whole face crinkled.

Zoya nodded absent-mindedly and looked at the dress.

Gaby turned to look at her image in the mirror. She looked at the ruffle on the hem, all the silk rosettes and bows at her waist, and imagined a train on top of that. She reminded herself that this wasn't real, it didn't matter. And yet her brows stayed furrowed and she kept wondering what would Illya say when he saw the dress.

He would hate it, Gaby was sure. Illya would think it was too fussy, he would’ve put her something simpler. And Gaby herself was ready to walk the aisle in a shop-bought dress. She didn't want ruffles or a train. She looked ridiculous and Illya would see her looking like this. And even when Gaby knew it didn't matter what Illya thought of the dress, it did. It mattered so much that it made her anxious. Every pin the seamstress used to secure the ruffles made her more and more want to scream.

Zoya stood up and discarded her magazine on the chair. She looked at the dress, judging, and tapped her lips with her index finger. “Or maybe the veil should be lace,” she muttered.

“No,” Gaby said louder than she had intended and made Zoya arch her brows at her. Gaby took a sharp breath of air and turned her head from the mirror image to the real Zoya and lifted her chin. “No. I don't want a lace veil.”

“If she makes it from the same lace that she uses on the dress it will match,” Zoya promised. “Don’t worry.”

“No,” Gaby said firmly and clenched her hands into fists. The opinions she had kept to herself started to bubble on the surface. “I don't care if they match or don’t. No lace veil. And no train. I don't want a train. No lace at all.”

“Gaby,” Zoya sighed.

“No,” Gaby said again, a little louder than before. She swallowed nervously and continued: “I look ridiculous,” she announced. “I look like a cream cake; like somebody frosted me. No one can tell me apart from the cake when we cut it. And Illya will hate this. He will think it has too much everything. And he is right, it has. I don't want this,” she snapped and didn’t try to hold herself back any more. “I don't want ruffles or silk rosettes or ribbons or bows,” she listed and yanked the nearest rosette in frustration while the seamstress stepped away from her. “I want something simple. I want to look beautiful and I want Illya to think that. I already have bruises on my neck. I don't need rosettes on top of that,” she explained agitatedly and out of breath, and almost stamped her feet like an angry child.

Zoya looked at Gaby, her eyes wide, and her face tensed up. “Do not be foolish, of course it needs rosettes.”

“No rosettes!” Gaby yelled “No bows, no ruffles! This is my wedding!”

Zoya crossed her arms on her chest and lifted her chin. “We can not take these all away,” she claimed. “We can add, but not take away.”

“I am not getting married in this dress,” Gaby informed her bluntly and yanked the veil from her hair and threw it on the floor. “I will walk down the aisle wearing only underwear before I wear all these ruffles.”

Zoya huffed and narrowed her eyes at Gaby. “We do not have time to start pulling everything apart.”

Gaby took a few quick steps and grabbed scissors from the little round side table. She twisted herself so she could see better the back of the dress, grabbed the nearest rosette, and started cutting it off.

Zoya gasped and the seamstress lunged towards her. She tried to take the scissors from Gaby, but she shoved the woman away from her shoulder and started to cut off the next one. She tried to push Zoya away too, but Zoya managed to get the scissors away from her.

“Have you gone mad?” Zoya gasped and stepped farther away with the scissors.

“I don't want to look like a cake,” Gaby cried and slumped down onto the pedestal she had been standing on. White silk fluffed around her like a cloud.

Zoya set the scissors down and went to her. She looked at Gaby sitting in middle of the silk cloud, looking miserable and embarrassed. “все прекрасно,” she sighed and reached both her hands to Gaby. She hesitated but took hold of her and let Zoya pull her up. “I do not have daughters. Only boys. So maybe I overstep here a little,” she suspected. “You are right; it is your wedding. But it is a very nice dress and -”

“I don't want it,” Gaby said and looked Zoya in the eye. “I don't want ruffles. All the ruffles need to go. No rosettes, no bows, no anything.”

Zoya’s jaw tightened a little and she glanced at the dress. She pointed to the bow at Gaby’s waist. “That one will stay. It will look too bare if everything is taken away.”

“No bows,” Gaby insisted firmly.

“And the one in the back on the same spot,” Zoya carried on and looked at her tightly. “Those two stay. Take it or leave it.”

Gaby took a deep breath and stared at Zoya. She felt like she had just won a big battle and a smart thing was to settle for two bows. Two bows she could cope with. Two bows was nothing. “Fine,” she consented. “Two bows.”

Zoya turned to face the seamstress and sighed: “You heard her; everything must go.”

Gaby pressed her mouth into a tight line so she wouldn’t smile.

 

***

 

Gaby was surprised to find Illya in their room when she arrived. He was sitting on a velvet armchair reading a newspaper and his brows were slightly furrowed. Gaby wasn't sure was it something in the news or just how he was. He lifted his gaze to her.

“I screamed at my dress fitting today,” Gaby sighed when she pushed the door shut behind her.

“Vasiliy hit me,” Illya said quietly.

Gaby noticed he was holding a little green towel to his cheek. She assumed there were ice inside. “Why?” Gaby asked, worried.

“Because I have no patience,” Illya confessed and it still made him slightly embarrassed. “And for shooting Mitrović.”

Gaby hummed. Illya set the ice-filled towel on the side table and folded the newspaper. Gaby walked to him. Neither one of them knew anymore what was normal to do. It felt like it was easier to stay somewhat in character all the time at the Dragomirovs. So Illya folded his newspaper, because it felt like that was what he was supposed to do. He set his arms on the armrests so when Gaby leaned first closer and then sat on his lap sideways, those weren't in her way. She leaned her back on the armrest and lifted her legs to hang over the other one, crossed her ankles. Illya let his hand flop over Gaby’s legs. She took the ice pack and pressed it to his cheekbone.

“What did you yell?” Illya asked, interested. He moved the towel to the right spot from Gaby’s wrist.

“Stupid things,” Gaby sighed and rolled her eyes. “I yelled how I don't want rosettes or ruffles. How I don't want to look like a cake. How it’s my wedding and I want to look pretty, not stupid,” she explained and Illya’s lips curled into a smile. “I was acting like a crazy person and Zoya looked me like I was one.”

“Did you win?” Illya asked softly.

“Zoya insists on two bows, but everything else is being removed as we speak,” Gaby announced proudly. She tried to move her toes inside her shoes. Her feet were killing her after wearing heels all day. Gaby leaned forward to undo the straps.

Illya sniffed at her attempt and pushed her hand that was barely brushing the straps away and started opening the little buckles lazily with one hand.

“Is everything okay with Vaska?” Gaby asked when she leaned back against the armrest.

“Yes,” Illya said. “As long as I do not do anything that stupid again. He told me what he was going to do if I do,” he muttered. He pulled the high heeled shoe from Gaby’s foot and dropped it on the thick carpet.

Gaby changed the other leg on top of the other and curled her bare toes. “What he is going to do?” Gaby asked carefully.

“It is not important,” Illya muttered and watched only the buckles he was opening. He was right to think that Gaby was staring at him. “Only something that is never going to happen.”

“Can you promise that?” Gaby asked quietly.

“Yes,” Illya promised. He tilted his head away from the ice pack and Gaby set it on the table.

Gaby looked at Illya. The scratch on his face, his blue eyes, and the golden hair that wasn't as neat as it usually was. Finally she nodded and took a deep breath. “Is that a bag full of money?” Gaby asked when she noticed the brown leather bag on the floor. It was full of bill bundles. She turned back to Illya who nodded. “Is it yours?”

“Right now at least,” Illya said. The little buckles opened and the other shoe dropped to the floor.

“Thank you,” Gaby said and Illya nodded to her. “Have you eaten? I’m starving.”

“No,” Illya said.

“Do you want to go out for dinner? Just the two of us, so we don't need to act anything,” Gaby suggested. “We can go somewhere really fancy and expensive. It’s not like money is going to be an issue.”

Illya hummed approvingly to Gaby’s little grin. “We can go,” he promised. Gently he took her feet in his hand, set his thumb against the bottom of her feet and squeezed it inside his palm. Gaby made a sharp gasp and jerked. She frowned and bit her lower lip. “Too hard?” Illya asked.

Gaby shook her head even when her face still looked like she was in pain and all her muscles seemed to be tense. Illya eased his squeeze, moved his hand slightly and squeezed again, his thumb against the bottom of her foot. She whined a little but started to relax in his lap and her brows started to smooth.

“That’s nice,” Gaby sighed.

“Do I need to carry you to the restaurant?” Illya smirked gently.

“No,” Gaby assured him, smiling, and crinkled her whole face and tried to suffocate her whine by biting her lip when Illya moved on to her other foot. “I can walk by myself,” she gasped. “Not in those shoes, but with some other pair. Just give me five minutes.”

“Vasiliy needs me to be more patient,” Illya muttered and move his fingers on her foot. “You can have six.” He glanced at Gaby, who tried not to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the story isn’t dragging with all the dialogue. For me it feels very necessary to have it all in there, but it could be that to others it seems like story isn’t moving on enough or it’s boring. I hope that’s only in my head. But if it’s not and you feel like this is dragging then maybe mention about that. But like very nicely and gently so I don’t just go into a corner to sob. But even if I’m sobbing there, I would like to know.


	8. Jumping the gun

The alarm went on and Gaby buried her face against the pillow. She didn't want to get up. The clock went quiet and the mattress moved when Illya rolled to turn it off. When he moved it was very clear how close to her he had been before he moved away in order to reach the clock. In the back of her mind Gaby knew it wasn't very professional, but it felt stupid to lie in a bed alone when you could lie against somebody warm. Illya rolled back to where he had been, on his side, practically against Gaby. His arm presumably had been wrapped around her before waking but now he didn’t reach to touch her. Still his bent arm and hand hung over him so that his fingertips brushed against Gaby like it was an accident.

Illya stalled with getting up. Normally he got up immediately, if for nothing else than habit. But lately Gaby had been sleeping next to him. She mumbled something, still half asleep, crawled deeper under the duvet and against him. It was hard to get up from next to somebody like that. Illya could've stayed there for the whole day doing nothing. It needed only a few centimeters’ move to wrap his arm over her, tuck it under her side and capture her against his chest. Lean a little closer and her head would slide to rest in the crook of Illya’s neck and after that it would be impossible to get up. Illya couldn't remember when he had last been sleeping next to somebody several nights in a row. Now getting used to that had happened scarily easy.

Finally he started to get up, rolled on his back and stretched. He turned to look when Gaby pushed the duvet off her face. She opened her eyes slightly, sighed and closed them back up again. She wasn't ready to get up up yet, but she was awake.

Illya went to the en-suite and yanked his t-shirt and pajama pants off and took a quick shower. He dried his hair in front of the mirror, ruffled it with the towel, and then combed it neatly. He pulled his trousers on and went to get a dress shirt from the wardrobe.

“Are we going to live long in your apartment?” Gaby asked with voice still husky after sleep and stretched under the covers. She tried to kick the duvet slowly off of her.

Illya pulled the shirt on and stopped. “Why?”

“We are going to make a baby during the honeymoon,” Gaby reminded him and was able to kick the covers away but stayed lying down. “It’s only one bedroom. We can’t fit there for long.”

“We will buy a house,” Illya decided after considering a while, and started buttoning his shirt. “How many children were you planing? It would be good to know before buying a house.”

Gaby shrugged against the mattress. “Two, three,” she sighed. “Something like that.”

Illya nodded approvingly. “One of each and one for spare.”

Gaby chuckled. “Nicely put.” She got up and walked past Illya on her way to the bathroom. “Going wrong,” she noted, pointing to the buttons he was sliding into the wrong buttonholes.

Illya frowned at his shirt and unbuttoned it.

Gaby reached for her toothbrush and toothpaste and started brushing her teeth. She leaned against the sink and wiped part of the steamed mirror clean so she could see herself.

“I assume the one we are going to make in the honeymoon is going to be a boy,” Illya said when he re-entered and moved Gaby gently but firmly aside so he could take his toothbrush. “To continue the family name and traditions.”

Gaby stopped her brushing. “I think you are going to get only girls,” she said, and wasn't quite sure was she talking about the real Illya or the cover Illya. “I know that is how men are supposed to feel about; that boys will continue their name. But I think you don't really care about that. I think you will have two or three girls and other men will think you are not happy about that. But you wouldn’t really care if you didn't have any sons. You know girls will keep your traditions alive just as easily as boys,” she said and continued brushing her teeth. Gaby was sure boys would only remind Illya of himself and his childhood too much. With girls he wouldn't have that problem. She wished only girls for him.

“Is that so?” Illya said.

“You would teach girls to fight and shoot like you would boys,” Gaby explained, the toothbrush in her mouth. “And I think you would like the idea of houseful of girls. I’m sure they would all be blond with blue eyes. Your strong Russian genes probably would suppress mine,” Gaby said, and Illya looked amused. “And one by one they would all climb to sit in your lap. They would have perky little ponytails and they would tell all their worries to you. Every one of them would have you wrapped around their pinky fingers. You would spoil them rotten.”

“All your plans are very detailed,” Illya pointed out with his toothbrush in his mouth. “Like you have been thinking about them before.”

“Maybe I have,” Gaby said. “You can't really know.” She leaned to spit into the sink and grinned. She was in a good mood and made Illya smile. “Probably Russian names too. Ekaterina, but we will call her Katya. And Natalya. And if there's a third she could be Galina. Blond girls with long legs and with boyfriends you can intimidate.”

“They will not date,” Illya muttered firmly and shook his head.

Gaby smiled. “Katya, Tasha and Galya. You would have your hands full.”

Illya spat in the sink. “I am sure,” he agreed. Gaby’s detailed story appeared in his mind annoyingly lively. Blond ponytails, little grabbing fingers, pink pouting lips he could not say no to. Not even if he tried. He turned to look at Gaby whose hair was messed and who wiped toothpaste from the corner of her mouth with her pajama sleeve.

“You wouldn’t have time to sell weapons. There would be constantly somebody who needed you to read bedtime stories or teach how to ride a bicycle,” Gaby sighed.

“You could read the bedtime stories,” Illya pointed out and put his toothbrush back in the cup.

“They would probably prefer you to read for them,” Gaby said smiling and walked back to the bedroom. “All daddy’s girls. I wouldn't be needed at all. I could concentrate on restoring cars or whatever my hobbies would be.” She flopped back to lie in the bed.

Illya went to the mirror to tie his necktie and smiled to himself. Again everything melted together, reality and the stories. For a moment Gaby’s story about daughters had felt like something she truly meant but now she was being the mother of those daughters so that had to be only something she said for the sake of the story. And still it sounded so nice, whether it was story or real. Illya wouldn’t mind spoiling little girls rotten.

“What are you going to do today?” Illya asked and pulled his jacket on.

“Maybe I should go shopping,” Gaby said. “For practise. So I know how to do it properly after the wedding.”

Illya went to the brown leather bag and threw a thick bundle of bills on the bed. Gaby jerked when it landed next to her and rose to lean on her elbows. “I don’t know whose money it is going to be eventually. But right now it is mine.”

Gaby grinned and rolled on her side so she could watch Illya collecting his things. He glanced at her from time to time and smiled a little. “Have a nice day,” she said when Illya went to the door.

“You too,” Illya said and looked at her until the door closed.

Gaby hummed in the bed and rolled onto her back. The world was warped and she couldn't properly tell reality from the act anymore. But right now all the feelings were light and soft, tickled inside of her and made the smile stay on her lips. She looked towards the window and let her gaze sweep across the view. Her eyes stopped at Illya’s nightstand and his watch on top of it. She grabbed it and jumped up from the bed because she could still catch him. Gaby yanked the door open and gasped sharply when she almost crashed against Illya. She needed to grab hold of his shoulder so she didn't stagger.

Illya startled and couldn't momentarily remember why he had returned. Gaby was suddenly pressed against him, hand on his shoulder. He looked at her face and remembered. “My watch,” he said, “I forget it.”

Gaby lifted her hand and waved the watch slightly.

The corners of Illya’s mouth twitched when he took it from her hand. He didn't stop looking at her when he heard footsteps and heard Zoya say good morning as she opened the door on the opposite side of the hallway.

Zoya didn’t look at them, but it was better to play safe. Gaby rose on her toes and Illya’s hand wrapped on her waist. It wasn’t anything new anymore; goodbye kiss at the door. It was easy, Illya turning his head down a little, Gaby lifting her face upwards. A soft and slow kiss in the hallway with a hint of a toothpaste.

It wasn’t necessary for Illya to pull her closer. Gaby didn't need to wrap her hand onto his nape while the other stayed on the crook of his neck, index finger slipped inside his collar. That could’ve been just an accident. Illya’s tongue touched Gaby’s and his other hand slipped on her hip. Gaby sighed softly against the kiss. Nothing they were doing was necessary for keeping their cover. 

But it was nice, soft and warm, made fingers tingle. For a moment Illya considered going back to the room to see where that would lead him. Gaby thought should she just pull Illya back in, it was hard to believe he would mind when his tongue touched hers softly. Thinking about the ways they could use the day made her heart pound faster.

Zoya made a noise and startled Gaby and Illya back to reality. They pulled apart slowly, Gaby even leaned back in to give one last little kiss, like she was sealing the previous kiss in so it would last all day on his lips.

Illya cleared his throat. “Have a nice day,” he said as if to restore normality.

“You too,” Gaby said when they stepped apart.

Illya stayed for a little more time longer, unwilling to leave, her taste still on his lips, gaze on his eyes. When he left he turned to look at Gaby over his shoulder. She leaned on the door frame and looked after him.

 

***

 

Gaby stood in the fitting room, her hands on her hips, looking at herself in the mirror wearing the little white see-through nightgown. She had a polka dot scarf tied on her neck so that people wouldn't stare at her still visible bruises.

She turned and looked at herself over her shoulder. Gaby didn't know what to pick. She had tried on eight nightgowns and endless pairs of French lingerie and not yet made one single decision. She wish Illya was there, he could make a decision. Gaby frowned, looking at herself. Maybe it was too much to ask him pick her underwear. And like that there wouldn't be any surprises on the wedding night.

Gaby shook her head at her own stupid thoughts. As if there really would be any surprises at the wedding night at all. She could wear a potato sack and it wouldn't matter. The wedding wasn't real, so the wedding night wasn't going to be real either. And yet she was wondering what kind of nightgown Illya would like to see her in.

In Rome Illya had dressed her in comfortable pajamas which she was grateful for. But surely he would like to see his newly wedded wife in something more revealing. Gaby just didn't know which one. Maybe Illya would like her in the sexy and dramatic black lace that bared most of her chest and her thigh. Or maybe he would like this white chiffon, something more girly and virtuous. Or maybe she should wear red, like Russia.

Gaby sat on the stool in the corner of the fitting room and leaned against the wall. She was annoyed that she constantly had to remind herself that the wedding wasn’t real. It was very unprofessional to forget something like that.

“Is everything alright in there?” a voice from the other side of the curtain asked.

“Yes,” Gaby asured. “I am having difficulties to choose what is the best.”

“Many people do,” the saleswoman said cheerfully.

Gaby fingered the edge of the nightgown. Finally she got up and changed back to her own black and white dress and stepped out of the fitting room.

The saleswoman went in after her and sighed when she saw all the lingerie Gaby had scattered around the fitting room. She gathered it all in a pile and carried it to the sales counter. “Which nightgown did you choose?” she asked when she set the pile of lace and silk down.

Gaby shrugged. “Maybe the black one,” she said. Nothing was going to happen so it didn't matter what she chose. And when it didn’t matter she could imagine being dramatic enough to wear black lace that revealed more than it covered. She could be dramatic and Illya could slip the narrow straps slowly off her shoulder, peel off the thin lace and kiss the skin that was underneath. Gaby straightened her back and wiped the image off her mind.

The saleswoman pulled the nightgown from the pile, put the others aside, and looked at the pile of expensive French lingerie she would have to sort out and put back on hangers. “Was there anything else you liked?” she asked, still smiling.

Gaby leaned against the counter, frustrated, and stared at the lingerie pile. There was nothing wrong with any of it. She just didn't know what would be best when you were playing newlywed. “I will take…” she sighed and frowned. “I will take those,” she finally muttered and gestured towards the pile.

“Which one?” the saleswoman asked uncertainly.

“All of it,” Gaby said and flicked her wrist like it didn’t matter. “I will take all of it.”

The saleswoman stared at her, but nodded then and started to pack everything up.

Gaby could see her glancing at her from time to time. “My fiancé is very rich,” she said because she felt like she needed to say something. She wanted to add “and tall” but she felt like that would’ve been just bragging.

 

***

 

The shopping bags hung loosely from Gaby’s hand, string handles wrapped in her fingers when she stepped inside and bumped into Zoya. She looked at the bags and smiled.

“I do not think I have seen that much French lingerie outside of the shop,” she suspected.

Gaby looked at her bags. “I think I overdid it,” she muttered.

“At least you are going to have one very happy fiancé,” Zoya smiled, but when Gaby only nodded silently her brows furrowed. “Is everything okay? Have you eaten?”

“Not yet,” Gaby admitted.

“Put your bags away and come to the kitchen. I will make you something to eat,” Zoya decided. “You can tell me what is troubling you.”

“Nothing’s troubling me,” Gaby assured her when she went to the kitchen after putting all her shopping away. She sat on the bar stool next to the counter instead of at the table. It was cosy to watch Zoya move around the kitchen. “I’m probably just tired. Or hungry. I don't know.”

“Cold feet?” Zoya asked.

“No,” Gaby said. “Nothing like that.”

“It is perfectly normal,” Zoya assured. “Suddenly you realize you are going to spend the rest of your life with the same person. That is scary. But that does not mean that you are not still going to get married. I cried at least a week before the wedding. I do not even know why, I was the one wanting to get married. But at the time all that crying felt very necessary. And it passed, I did not cry after the wedding.”

Gaby didn’t feel like crying. She didn’t mind spending the rest of her life with Illya. Or pretending to do that at least.

“I will fry you a steak,” Zoya decided, standing at the open refrigerator.

“I don't need a steak,” Gaby said. “Sandwich is enough.”

Zoya shook her head. “No. Steak does you good. Red meat will bring the colour back to your cheeks,” she assured her.

Gaby set her chin to lean on her fists and let Zoya do as she pleased. Maybe steak was what she needed. She tilted her head towards the door when Vasiliy came in. He went and kissed Zoya on the cheek and winked at Gaby. Zoya whispered something to him and Gaby knew it was about her. Vasiliy went to the cupboard, took glasses and bottle and poured two drinks. He handed the one to Gaby. She sipped the smoky whisky and made a little sigh.

“What is it, куколка?” Vasiliy asked. “There is no need for a pretty girl like you to be sad. Is it what I did to Illya? It is only a small bruise. I am sure it can be covered for the wedding.”

Gaby shook her head. “It’s not that,” she sighed and then frowned immediately. “He deserved that bruise,” she said tightly. “He could’ve got himself killed.”

“That is what I said,” Vasiliy said. “He should consider things longer. How long did you said you were in the first date before he confessed his love to you?”

“Forty-five minutes,” Gaby said trying to remember what she had told them before.

“You see,” Vasiliy said. “No one confesses something like that so quickly. Not even if the girl is very pretty. That is too fast. But then I do understand him,” Vasiliy sighed and sipped his whisky. “I was once like him. In love at first sight.”

Gaby let the smoky liquid coat her mouth before swallowing. “I thought it was marriage of convenience,” she remarked.

Vasiliy snorted. “That is what she says,” Vasiliy huffed and pointed at Zoya’s back. “She married for convenience. I was ready to kiss the ground she was walking on right after I met her,” Vasiliy announced solemnly and Gaby smiled at him.

“What are you telling the girl?” Zoya insisted. “Do not believe him. He is making this up,” she assured Gaby.

“I was very much in love and very unhappy that she did not love me back,” Vasiliy went on and nodded. “But I had some money so I managed to convince her that marrying me would be reasonable thing to do.”

“There was not that much money,” Zoya muttered and the frying pan made a sharp hiss when she set the steak in it.

Suddenly Gaby was starving and happy that Zoya had overridden her objections.

“Is she making steak for you?” Vasiliy asked and Gaby nodded. “Where is my steak?”

“We are not having this conversation again,” Zoya said firmly and turned to look at them. “You know what the doctor said. You need to watch your cholesterol.”

Vasiliy huffed. “Ridiculous,” he announced and turned to Gaby. “Can you believe this? The doctor has convinced her that she is slowly killing me and that I am constantly in danger. Now she had started to restrict things I can eat.”

“It is to your own best,” Zoya claimed.

“It does not feel like it,” Vasiliy muttered and Gaby snickered in her glass. “See, everything is already better, куколка,” Vasiliy said and pulled Gaby under his arm. He smelled of the same sharp cologne he always wore. “There is whisky and steak and you do not have to fear I will break Illya’s arm if you make sure he does not do anything stupid anymore.”

Gaby frowned. “Is that what you threatened to do?”

“That... or maybe it was something else,” Vasiliy said vaguely. “How can one remember everything? The important thing is that he does not give me reason to that. Yes? And so everything is better.”

Gaby leaned against Vasiliy and sipped her whisky. Strangely everything felt better.

 

***

 

Illya stopped to peek in the kitchen to see if Gaby was there.

“What is this?” Vasiliy asked tightly and pointed to the plate in front of him and looked angry. “This is a joke.”

“It’s good for you,” Zoya sighed.

“No, this is…” Vasiliy grunted and crossed his arms. “Illya,” he noticed before Illya managed to back away. “If Gaby cooked you something like this would you be happy?”

Illya entered the kitchen and looked at his fish and vegetable dish. “I would be amazed,” he said. “I would assume she was lying. Last time she cooked the apartment smelled like smoke for several days,” he claimed. If Gaby could make up things about him, he could make up things about her.

Zoya smiled and then glared at Vasiliy. “There’s no need to complain. This is the doctor's orders.”

Vasiliy shook his head. “Sit down,” he urged Illya.

Illya gestured behind him. “I was going to -”

“Sit down,” Vasiliy said. “She isn't disappearing if you stay here for a while. Have a drink with me.”

Illya sat down. It was easier than to argue and he meant to be more patient anyway. Vasiliy got up instead and poured two whiskies.

“That’s the last one today,” Zoya pointed out.

“This restricting is ridiculous,” Vasiliy grunted.

Zoya shook her head at him and turned to Illya. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes,” Illya assured her and took the whisky Vasiliy was offering.

“I would pay a fortune for bloody steak,” Vasiliy muttered when he sat down and glared at his plate. “She made one for Gaby but for me it’s this dry, saltless garbage.”

“It’s haddock,” Zoya corrected.

“Garbage,” Vasiliy hissed between his teeth.

“You are impossible,” Zoya said even though she was fighting a smile. She left when the phone was ringing in the next room.

“Ridiculous modern poppycock,” Vasiliy muttered. “There was no cholesterol before. Everybody ate bloody steaks and no one had any problem with that. But now, now it’s dry fish and this… what this is?” he huffed, frustrated, and poked his dish with a fork.

“Green beans,” Illya said.

“And now she is watching my drinking. And can you guess what she suggested?” Vasiliy asked his brow deeply knitted.

Illya tried not to smile at Vasiliy’s problems. “What?”

“That I stop smoking my cigars,” Vasiliy said and opened his eyes wide open to emphasize how appalled he was. “Have you ever heard anything so stupid? Everybody knows that smoking keeps your lungs clear. When you smoke you won't get pneumonia.”

Illya sipped his whisky and didn’t interfere in his problems. Vasiliy maybe didn’t enjoy his meal and was fighting with his wife but to Illya it was family life he hadn’t experienced for a long time. It was relaxing to be part of somebody else's family.

“You are lucky she doesn't cook,” Vasiliy said. “That way she can't cook for you and make you get used to it and then suddenly stop when some quack fills her head with nonsense. And now it’s been taken away from me. Do you know what that feels like?”

Illya thought about Gaby who didn't maybe cook, but who was almost like his right now. It was easy to make himself believe that when she was sleeping next to him, gave him sweet little goodbye kisses and when she wore his ring on her finger. And Illya wasn't ready to let go of that. There were a million little things he wanted to do and the cover was giving him the perfect opportunity to do those.

He wanted to coax her up in the mornings when she tried to burrow deeper into the bed. He wanted to mutter in her ear and cover her neck and bare shoulders with soft kisses. Gaby would no doubt still try to stay in bed, but she would be already smiling. Both of them would know she was doing it only so that Illya would continue, and he would. He wanted to fight about something stupid with her just so they could make up again. He wanted to be angry and annoyed about something so she would come to him and melt away the bad mood with her touch. He wanted to come home in the middle of the night, exhausted, crash into the bed and bury his face against her skin.

Illya knew the mission wouldn’t last forever. At some point they would discover all the parts of the Mafia's network. And when that happened it would be over; Gaby and he would stop being a couple and continue in their separate lives. Every day was one day closer to the moment they would walk away from here and he would lose her.

 

***

 

Gaby wasn't in the room when Illya went in. It was empty, bedside lamps were on and gave some dim light to the dark room.

“Hi,” Gaby said quietly.

Illya turned around and noticed she was there after all. She was sitting against the wall on the thick carpet, the open door almost hiding her. Illya closed the door. “Why do you sit there?”

Gaby shrugged. She hugged her bent knees close to her. “Just am.”

“Is everything okay?” Illya asked when he opened his jacket’s buttons and took it off.

“I have worries,” Gaby said. There was no reason to hide it, Illya would see it anyway.

“What kind of worries”? Illya asked.

“All sorts,” Gaby sighed and leaned her head against the wall. “Big ones. Small ones.”

Illya frowned. He turned to throw his jacket on the chair, but it was full of shopping bags. There were bags in the floor too. French lingerie, he suspected from the name on the bags. “Was there anything left at the store?” Illya asked and pointed at the bags.

“I couldn't make up my mind,” Gaby said even though it didn't really answer Illya’s question.

Illya smiled gently at Gaby and went to sit next to her in the dark corner and leaned against the wall. His arm brushed against her shoulder. “What kind of worries?” he asked again.

“I like them,” Gaby said quietly. “Vaska and Zoya. They are nice and kind and very good to me,” she went on. “And I find it really hard to remember that they are our marks and criminals. They don't feel like that, they feel like… family,” Gaby confessed. “Are you mad?” she asked carefully and couldn't bring herself to look at Illya.

“No,” Illya muttered. “I like them too.”

Gaby hummed and leaned against Illya, set her head against his shoulder. He leaned his head against hers.

“They feel like your parents,” Gaby explained. “People who take you in and love you even when you aren't their own. And they are so happy together. They were bickering in the kitchen about his new diet and I wanted to tell them who I really was and ask them to run. Disappear somewhere,” Gaby said. “I feel totally unprofessional all the time. And now I have got attached to the marks,” she sighed. “I didn’t believe something like this would happen.”

Illya turned his head and pressed a kiss to Gaby’s forehead. She close her eyes while his lips touched her skin.

“And that too,” Gaby sighed. “You. And not just you, but everything. I know we are not really getting married. But it doesn't feel like that. All this feels so real.” Gaby let go of her legs and slowly turned and climbed on Illya’s lap, straddled him. His bent legs secured Gaby tightly against his lap.

Illya knew what Gaby meant. Everything felt real. Gaby in his lap felt like she had always sat there. Her dress climbed up on her thighs and Illya’s hands set to touch the bare skin. They moved slowly up to her hips and rested there.

“You feel like a fiancé, Vaska and Zoya are like in-laws and this is real life,” Gaby said quietly. “Maybe we should just stay here. Get married and sell weapons. I’m sure we would be good at that.”

“Which one?” Illya muttered.

“Both,” Gaby sighed. “I feel like there is two Gabys. One who is trying to do her job and the other who is getting married. And the two are now merged as one. And I don't know anymore who feels what. I don't know which one of them wants you. Maybe both,” Gaby confessed when it felt too much to keep to herself. “And that’s stupid.”

Illya didn't hesitate. His hand slid to Gaby’s neck when he pulled her into a kiss. It didn't last long, they let their lips pull apart. Gaby took a trembling breath and pressed her forehead against Illya’s forehead. She closed her eyes and lifted her fingers to grab his collar gently.

“Stupid,” Illya muttered.

“Stupid,” Gaby agreed. She didn't open her eyes when she pressed her face closer. Their lips barely touched when she kissed him. Illya’s lips parted and her next brush of a kiss touched his bottom lip only.

Illya lifted his chin and the next soft brush was almost like a real kiss, touched both lips and then stayed touching. Mouths opened carefully against each other. Slowly and lingering, still waiting to see if the other one backed out. But neither of them did. Gaby’s fingers loosened from his collar and moved on his bare neck. Illya’s hand touched her sides and back, pulled her close so that she pressed firmly against his chest. Gaby made a soft moan when Illya’s tongue touched hers like it had in the morning. Except now there was no one they were pretending for. And no reason to stop. Stupid careful brushes had turned into open mouths and intense touches. It had turned into a hard throb in the veins and flickering, flame-like lust in the lower abdomen. Illya’s hand caressed slowly her other breast and she rocked her hips and liked when he was hard and ready against her.

They struggled getting up when neither of them wanted to let go of the other. Gaby opened Illya’s shirt buttons and Illya the zipper from her dress. Stumbling over each other’s legs they managed to get to the bed, yanking clothes from themselves and each other. Illya’s hand hugged Gaby’s waist close and he set his knee on the edge of the bed so he could lay her down against it smoothly instead of pushing her in. Gaby’s arms wrapped under his arms, bent up and pulled him in before moving slowly down against his back, fingers tracing his spine.

It was easy to let go of the reality and submerge into the cover. There was no agent, no mission, nothing was unprofessional. There was only Gaby and Illya, slowly taking the last clothes off. Gaby and Illya who were getting married in a few days. Happy and in love, proving to each other how much they cared and wanted.

All the memories Gaby had made up suddenly seemed real. They had met on a grey and rainy Tuesday. The street had been full of puddles. When Illya had splashed water on Gaby’s shoes and had to stop when she pointed it out, annoyed, he too had been annoyed. But her cheeks were pink because of the cool weather, wind tousled her bangs and waved her coat and Illya didn't mind anymore. She was beautiful and opinionated and when she had said  _ no _ to his offer to buy her coffee he had followed her seventeen blocks. For two weeks he came every day to ask her out again. Gaby had rolled her eyes and kept it secret how her heart jumped every time he returned. She finally said  _ yes _ because she didn't want to risk that one day he wouldn't return. Illya had told he loved her after forty-five minutes on the first date and Gaby had held her smile and was afraid that he would notice her blushing.

Illya proposed after a month, which was way too soon. The second time naked in her narrow bed. He had claimed he wouldn't be proposing again and Gaby had chuckled. They had fought about who had scratched the car and made up in the backseat an hour later. Memory of that made Illya still marvel how a girl like her was with him.

Gaby wore a red dress the night Illya proposed for the third time. He had made dinner, let her taste the sauce from the ladle, the heat from the stove made both their cheeks flush. And Gaby’s touch didn't cool him one bit when she distracted him from his cooking, slid her hands against him, teased and made him smile. She had yanked Illya away from the stove saying the sauce needed to simmer and she needed to be touched back. Illya dropped the tea towel on the counter and the gas stove set it in flames. The fire alarm had beeped, Illya had pushed the towel into the sink. Gaby had giggled and told him she loved him and Illya had proposed the third time. This time she had said  _ yes _ and Illya had slipped his mother's ring on her finger. 

Suddenly all that felt more real than the reality and being together felt like the easiest thing in the world.

And when there was all that history together; it didn't feel like the first time. It was comfortably familiar. They knew how to touch each other, there was no awkwardness or hesitation. Illya’s hand slid over her stomach, traced the kisses he was pressing against it. His stubble tickled Gaby’s inside thighs, her fingers messed his hair. Gaby’s head bent back, her breathing trembled when his mouth covered her pink flesh and made her back arch.

Illya kissed his way back up, his fingers squeezing her skin. He held back and teased her; let his erection rub against her but didn’t go any further. He enjoyed her impatient noises and her soft counter pushes. He liked seeing how she wanted. Wanted him. So wonderfully impatient and without hiding. Illya’s gaze held Gaby’s when he pushed himself in. He wanted to see her face and how he made her feel.

Gaby frowned, her lips parted and her head bent back a little, but her gaze stayed on him. Slow and deep moans came out of her and her fingers dug into his skin. Illya had to bite his own lip when he realized how good she felt. So deliciously ready for him; slick and hot. Gaby’s head bent forward and pressed against his shoulder when he moved closer. Her arms wrapped over his neck and her thighs set against his hips. She reciprocated Illya’s movements with her own; moved against his body when he slid inside of her.

They were good together, suited for one another, wanted the same things. Were soft and tender when it was fitting and rough when they needed to be. Neither one of them held back or tried to hide how they felt, how good the other one made them feel.

Illya kissed the thin skin of her neck, traced her throat with his lips, covered the bruises somebody else had left on her. Illya couldn't remember had he ever been that relaxed in bed, probably not. But it was easy with Gaby. He wanted her to see how much he enjoyed it.

And Gaby could see it, she could hear it; his out of breath whispers in Russian, telling her how good she felt. Words she had never heard from Illya and which now made her heart pound. 

He slipped his hand under her buttocks and lifted her off the bed before thrusting in, making her arch her back and lose control of her moans.

“Illya,” Gaby managed when she was already starting to crumble in his hands. “Halte nicht an,” she gasped with a trembling voice. She was close, pressure building inside of her, waiting to blow up like a grease fire and burn all over the room.

“Say it again,” Illya muttered out of breath. “My name.”

“Illya,” Gaby gasped and tried to hold herself together for a little while longer. He wanted to feel his thrusts for a little while longer before falling. All the worries she had felt before melted away when he set his hands on her. “Illya,” she practically sobbed just before she came. She tried to suffocate her cries but Illya’s last thrusts were rough and hard and she had to let everything out. 

Illya closed his eyes and let himself just feel her pulsating around him. He buried his face against her neck before letting go, grunting and relaxing against panting Gaby. One thigh flopped powerlessly against the bed, but the other stayed leaning against his hip. Her fingers touched carefully his skin, the small of his back was slippery with sweat. Illya moved his forehead against the pillow and their cheeks pressed together. He leaned on his arm so he wouldn't crush Gaby under him. Illya closed his eyes when Gaby’s tiny whisper of a touch grew stronger and she wrapped her arms tightly around him and squeezed him against her. Illya moved aside a little, rolled onto his side, and pulled Gaby close. She nuzzled her face in the crook of his neck and relaxed into his arms. His hand bent on her back and his fingers played with her hair.

Gaby didn't want to talk about anything. She didn't want anything to break the spell of them living in the cover. Instead she lifted her head up to see him. They kissed lazy kisses, touches were slow and tender but real and not careful. Illya’s hand slid on Gaby’s hip and further on her bottom and he didn't hesitate with his touch. They spend the last moments before sleep with each other. It was easy to fall asleep when there were still kisses on the skin and relaxed muscles, heads full of scents and touches.

 

***

 

Illya’s alarm clock woke both of them. He sat up, scratched the back of his head. Gaby moved and rolled onto her side to watch him. She liked Illya like that; hair messed, without a shirt, still sleepy. He turned to look at her, hummed a little when he remembered what had happened the previous night and was still struggling to believe it was real.

Gaby’s gaze followed him when he returned to lie on the bed, on his side, facing her.

In the morning light everything felt different. They were agents again. They were on a mission. There was no engagement, no shared history, Illya hadn’t proposed three times. Everything was made-up and both of them knew it.

Gaby craned her neck towards him. Lips brushed against one another, then pressed together, mouths opened. It was a slow and lazy kiss, fitting in morning time. Last kiss, they both knew. Something soft before having to face the reality and stop living in the fantasy. They parted lips unwillingly.

“It was… nice,” Gaby muttered. “But…”

“We should have not done that,” Illya finished the sentence reluctantly.

“We shouldn't,” Gaby sighed. “And Vaska and Zoya are our marks. I remember that.”

Illya nodded. “I should stay in my apartment before the wedding,” he said. “It would make sense.”

“We should do that,” Gaby said reasonably.

Silence sat between them. They were looking at each other and regretting already the decision they had to make.

“I was stupid,” Illya said quietly. “But I don't regret it.” He was sorry he didn't. It would’ve been easier if he had.

Gaby took a deep breath and sighed, disappointed. She moved closer so that their foreheads pressed together and closed her eyes. She wanted to stay there for a little while longer, against him, before it was over.


	9. Cold feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. I would like to say there was some actual reason for it. But no, it was just me not getting shit done. Sorry.
> 
> Also there is little Tumbtr only [mission/chicken fic](http://edenforest.tumblr.com/post/149957079735/i-promised-a-chicken-fic-if-that-kgb-chicken-post) if you want to read that.

The mood in the car was oppressive. They both sat deliberately silent. Gaby’s hands rested on her lap while she leaned her temple on the window and let the view fly by her. Her ring was catching the sun and Illya noticed he was glancing it gleaming on her finger more than he should. He tried to concentrate on the road, but was struggling with it. The images flashing in his mind weren't helping either; Gaby’s neck bending back, droplets of sweat running slowly down her throat and pooling between her collarbones, her heavy breathing and heaving breast, her deliciously desperate moans, hot squeeze when she came gasping his name.

Illya straightened his back. He had looked tense the whole drive when he was unable to wipe Gaby off his mind. Keeping distance from her didn't help at all. It only made his mind to go overdrive when he couldn't stop thinking about her when he missed her.

And they couldn't even keep their distance; they still needed to pretend to be engaged, they still needed to get married and move in together. In two days’ time they would again be under the same roof and in the same bed and Illya dreaded already how awkward and difficult that would be.

“What time you are coming tomorrow?” Gaby asked and broke the pressuring silence. She didn't turn to look at Illya. It was easier not to look. If she looked, she would want him and she needed to concentrate on the mission.

“Afternoon,” Illya said.

“Dinner is at seven,” Gaby reminded him even though she was sure Illya remembered. “Zoya doesn’t want it to go too late. Apparently I need a good night’s sleep so I look beautiful at the wedding.”

Illya was already saying something, but decided to shut his mouth in a tight line instead, frowning at his own softness, and at stared the road. He couldn't say that she would look beautiful no matter what. He decided to say nothing and the silence wrapped them in the awkward cloud again. When he stopped the car on the mansion's driveway both were happy that the awkward drive was over. Illya carried Gaby’s bags upstairs; both of them were avoiding eye contact. Their communication consisted of short, blunt sentences.

“I will walk you back to the car,” Gaby said even though it would be easier to let Illya go by himself. They were maybe trying to keep their distance, but they still needed to pretend. Silently they returned to downstairs, walked past Vasiliy’s den, and stopped when somebody shouted behind the door. The thick wooden door muffled most of the noise, but it was clear that somebody was very angry. They glanced at each other and Illya noticed one of Vasiliy’s big henchmen sitting further down the hallway on a little chair that looked like it was struggling under his weight.

“Who is inside”? Illya asked

“Anatoly Gregov,” the man said and didn’t lift his eyes from the newspaper he was reading.

“I think he has just heard that you are taking his job,” Gaby muttered.

Illya nodded. “Let’s hope there are no problems because of that,” he said and pushed Gaby gently back into walking; his palm on the small of her back was the first touch after they had got off the bed the day before. He let his hand drop off immediately.

They stopped at the front door. Accidently their eyes met and they froze, still looking at each other. Gaby wanted to take the few steps that kept them apart, press herself against him, set her cheek in the crook of his neck. She lowered her gaze before she ended up looking too desperate.

“We will see tomorrow,” Illya said stiffly before leaving.

“Drive carefully,” Gaby said after him. They were the only people in the lobby and there was no reason for a goodbye kiss. Illya left and Gaby stayed, leaning against the windowsill and watching him walk back to the car, glancing at her over his shoulder before stepping in. Gaby looked after the car, missing him already. She missed his hand on the small of her back and his lips on hers. She missed his weight on top of her. His touch and scent and taste.

A door slammed shut somewhere close and roused Gaby from her thoughts. Anatoly walked briskly along the hallway, looking bitter and angry like he usually did. His face was red from shouting or from shame. His hair was messy, like he had run his fingers through it over and over; his forehead gleamed with sweat. He stared back at Gaby with narrowed eyes, and Gaby’s hand clenched into a fist like she was preparing to fight him if the situation escalated to that. Gaby could see his gaze dropping lower, sweeping across her still barely visible and yellowing bruises.

Gaby lifted her chin and straightened her back and let him stare as much as he wanted. She wasn't going to let his contemptuous gaze bend her. She was going to carry her bruises with honor, like battle scars. She wasn't going to be ashamed or sorry about those. And even if Anatoly was looking at her like she should feel weak and vulnerable because she had gotten those, Gaby didn't feel like that. It was a visible reminder that somebody had been there to threaten her life. But it was also testament that she wasn't there alone; she had her bruises but she was standing under Anatoly’s stare because Illya had been there with her. And Gaby felt like Anatoly was sorry about that. He looked at her like he wanted her to be alone, not able to fight back. Not that he really cared about Gaby, but he wanted to see Illya lose her.

So Gaby looked back and didn't turn her eyes away as long as he approached her. She turned her head when he walked behind her and continued watching him walking away. He left from the driveway so aggressively that he left marks on the gravel. Gaby hoped he drove himself off the road.

 

***

 

Trying to not think about Gaby was harder than Illya had anticipated. She was constantly in his head. If he didn't think about something she had said or did, he was thinking about something he should say or do to her. He huffed, frustrated when he couldn't shake her away. He wondered how he had ever gone this far without this being an issue. He had managed over six months without this problem. Of course he had been thinking about her before, but this was like an obsession. It had to be the cover; kissing, sleeping next to her. He had let himself submerge too deep in the cover, all the feelings he was pretending to have didn't feel like pretending anymore. He had liked her before, cared for her, but this was different. And it didn’t help when he knew exactly how she looked without her little dresses, how she sounded when she came. Pictures of that bombarded his brain constantly and didn't give him rest.

Another car drove past him, fast, almost scraping against him. It turned in front of him and forced Illya to turn and stop the car roughly with the hand brake so he didn't crash against it. Both cars were in the verge of the road and Illya squeezed the steering wheel, skin tightening over his knuckles; he knew whose car it was and he tried to calm himself down. Anatoly got out of his car and Illya let go of the steering wheel and stepped slowly out to meet him.

“What are you trying?” Illya grunted getting out, pointing the cars. “To kill us both?”

“Vasiliy just told me that you’ll be taking my job,” Anatoly snapped and dismissed Illya’s question. “As I suspected. You are worming your way first into my position and then into his.”

Illya huffed and shook his head. They had already had this conversation and he knew there was nothing he could say to calm the man down. “I already said that his position is not there for anybody just to grab. I’m sure you know that. I’m sure you have imagined yourself in his place and then realized that it’s never going to happen.”

“Do you know what my position is now?” Anatoly demanded.

“Probably nothing,” Illya suspected, bored. “You have nothing but your marriage connecting you to the family. I would recommend treating your wife better before she too drops you. Then you truly won't be anything anymore.”

“You did this!” Anatoly shouted.

Illya inhaled calmly. He had already decided he wouldn't do anything. Anatoly could shout as much he wanted, but he wasn't going to let that bother him. Anatoly should be happy to know that even though Vasiliy had just fired him he was also the reason Illya hadn't already hurled him in the ditch next to the road, with all his bones broken, bleeding and slowly dying. Deep down Anatoly was only a failed and petty man who was trying to dump his own problems onto him. If Illya didn't think he was so annoying, he would pity him. “You did this yourself,” he sighed. “You didn’t come to finish your own deal. That was the last straw. Only reason why you aren’t dead already is because I was there to cover you and make sure the job was done, so you didn't screw up as much as you could’ve. You are welcome.” Illya started to turn to go back into his car.

“I’m sorry they didn’t manage to finish off your German whore,” Anatoly huffed after him.

Illya turned back. His hand rose fast to the back of Anatoly’s head. He bashed his face against the car in one efficient movement. Anatoly slumped to the ground and left a bloody stain on the light blue car. Illya took a deep breath, let his fingers tap against his thigh but controlled himself. He wanted to rip Anatoly into pieces, bash his head against the car until he couldn't move anymore. But he couldn't kill him, so he needed to calm down. Illya stretched his neck and listened to the sound Anatoly was making on the ground but didn't turn to look at him.

“You broke my nose,” Anatoly managed when he crawled back up. His nasal voice sounded shocked; he touched his nose that was bleeding over his lips and chin and tried to lean on the car to keep himself up.

Illya took a firm grip on his neck and shoved him roughly against the car, his head bent back against the roof. Illya wanted to squeeze harder than he did but allowed him to breathe. “I said that if you ever talk about Gaby like that, I will break your neck,” Illya growled. “So be happy that I only broke your nose.”

Anatoly twitched under Illya’s grip but didn't try to struggle himself free. His face showed that he had just realized that he couldn't win against Illya no matter how angry he was. Illya would crush him if he tried.

“I don’t want to see you tomorrow,” Illya said firmly. “If you need to be in the wedding, then come, but you will stay away from me. And you will especially stay away from Gaby. If I see you even looking at her in a way I don’t like I will make you choke on your own blood.”

Anatoly made a sad whine when Illya’s grip tightened and he couldn't breathe properly anymore.

Illya yanked his hand off Anatoly, who staggered and leaned against the car like it was the only way for him to stay up. Illya looked at his hand: blood running down Anatoly’s face had stained it. He took Anatoly’s pocket square and wiped his hand with that. “You should go to a hospital. Your nose is broken,” he said emotionlessly and stuffed the bloody pocket square back in his pocket and returned to his car. He may have lost his temper and acted hastily, but it was only one broken nose. He liked to think that Vasiliy would approve of that. Gaby probably would, too. He started the engine and steered the car back on the road.

Even when he felt like his actions were justified, he was far from calm. He turned the car on the church's driveway, killed the engine and gave himself some time to gather himself. His fingers calmed and he didn’t feel anymore like he had to keep himself in line by force. His jaw relaxed. He got up and walked inside of the small church, sat on the bench and inhaled the cool and damp air.

“Did you came to see Reverend Thomas?” the gently smiling woman Illya had seen there before came to ask him.

“No,” Illya asured. “You can tell him that there is no reason we need to meet.”

The woman nodded and left Illya on his own. He watched the altar in front of the church. Day after tomorrow he would be there. Gaby would be there. He would say  _ I do _ to her and she would say  _ I do _ to him. Illya wondered how ever he could let that situation just sweep past him instead knocking him over. How could he ever look at Gaby in there and remember he was working and not really marrying her? Illya sighed and swallowed anxiously, all the emotions were draining his energy. He didn't want to fight against it even when that was what he and Gaby had agreed upon. Keeping his distance was the right thing to do and yet it felt so wrong and hard.

“Cold feet?” Napoleon asked and made Illya jerk.

He turned his head and glared Cowboy. “I specifically said that I do not want to meet the priest,” he informed.

“Yes you did,” Napoleon confirmed. “But when Beatrice said to me that the Russian groom is here and he doesn’t want to meet me, I got intrigued. So I had to come.”

Illya huffed, disappointed that his peace was gone.

“When was the last time you ate peach cobbler?” Napoleon asked.

“Never,” Illya answered, a little bored.

“It is delicious. Come with me,” Napoleon ordered and left towards the vestry.

Illya sat a little while longer and pondered should he be stubborn and refuse to follow him. But he stood up and followed Cowboy and sat in the chair he pointed out to him. Cowboy handed him a plate of peach cobbler with custard and a spoon.

“So, what brings you here to the house of the Lord, my child?” Napoleon asked and sat down behind his desk.

Illya rolled his eyes. “Do not make this weird,” he asked.

Napoleon grinned. He removed his cassock and Illya tasted the cobbler.

“This is good,” he said. “Do you get lot of desserts and pastries?”

“Constantly,” Napoleon admitted nodding. “I think I have at least three cakes in the rectory’s pantry at all times. I try to get everybody else to eat those so I don't get fat around here.”

Illya nodded and ate his cobbler quietly.

“Are you going to eventually tell me why you came here?” Napoleon asked.

“I came to sit in the quiet church,” Illya said. “You were the one who insisted on this meeting.”

“Has it got something to do with the bruise on your cheek?” Napoleon asked and nodded towards the mark on him, it looked few days old. “Or that fresh blood on your cuffs?”

Illya glanced at his cuff and frowned at the stain. “No. Neither.”

“Well, at least it’s not cold feet because you aren’t really getting married,” Napoleon spoke out loud and decided to ignore Peril’s reluctance to tell what he was doing there.

“It does not feel like it,” Illya muttered.

Napoleon lifted his brows at Illya, who regretted immediately his muttering, and glanced at Solo quickly from under his own brows. He wished he could take his words back and stop Cowboy from asking more questions.

“It’s not really a real wedding,” Napoleon reminded.

“Real or not it is still happening,” Illya huffed frustrated. “We are still going to the church. We are saying  _ I do _ to each other. There is going to be reception, a wedding picture, we will cut the cake, people are making toasts. It is maybe fake but it is still all happening.”

“Is there some other problem than you being soft and liking Gaby?” Napoleon asked.

Illya frowned and ate his cobbler.

Napoleon pursed his mouth. “You are not going to give me anything, aren't you? This is like pulling teeth.”

“Something happened,” Illya confessed quietly.

“What?” Napoleon asked interested.

Illya shrugged his shoulders and looked away from Cowboy. “Something that should not have happened.”

Napoleon grinned even though he tried to hide it. “If something happened with Gaby and you look that uneasy it's not that hard to guess what. I hope the sex at least was good to counterbalance this unnecessary guilt you seem to be feeling.”

Illya sighed, set the empty plate on the corner of the desk, frowned and leaned uncomfortably in his chair. “It does not matter,” he muttered. “It should not have happened. We can not do anything about it anyway. The agency has rules.”

Napoleon chuckled and Illya glared at him.

“Is this funny to you?” he asked.

“I think it’s a little funny how you think that the agency can do anything about it,” Napoleon said and leaned forward in his chair. “What is it you think anybody can do? Waverly can forbid you to be together, which you can just ignore. He can separate you into different teams. But he tried that after Istanbul and I’m sure he still remembers how bad an idea that was. We can all agree that we don’t really work well with other people and other agents don't really want to work with us,” he said and his brows rose like he couldn't understand how anybody could feel anything but complete joy from working with him.

“They can send me back to KGB,” Illya pointed out and tried to hide that it was really what he feared. 

“To tell all UNCLE secrets?” Napoleon huffed. “They wouldn't risk that. And there is always the chance that if the agency tries to punish either one of you, the other one is just going to turn against them. And if one of you turns then the other one turns. And if…” Napoleon sighed and shook his head, disappointed, when he realized that he was really going to say this out loud, “if you are going to be against something probably I am going to be too. It’s not like I’m going to be alone on their side. So if they want to keep any of us and make sure we are still efficient there really isn’t anything they can do. Only thing that Waverly can do is to say he is frowning about it and you can shrug your shoulders because it’s not really your problem that he likes to frown upon.”

Illya looked at Cowboy from under his brows. He wasn't sure the things he was saying sounded good because they were true or because he wanted them to be true.

“As long as you don’t flaunt it, it’s beneficial to the agency not to get involved. And it’s not just this matter. It applies to everything. I do it,” Napoleon said and shrugged his shoulders. “I did it in the CIA. When you are good and make yourself irreplaceable you don’t even believe what kind of things you can get away with.”

“Like robbing this church?” Illya suggested and crossed his arms on his chest.

“Like that in the future,” Napoleon said frowning. “I can't believe she told you.”

“We are engaged, of course she told me,” Illya remarked.“She tells me  _ everything _ .”

“You can wipe that expression away,” Napoleon said. “That was for information. But you had sex with a fellow agent for no reason.”

“It was practically an accident,” Illya claimed and feared that he might blush. “We were just… committing to the cover.”

Napoleon raised his brows. “Committing to the cover? Alone in the bedroom? Or wherever it happened. I assume it was there, you don’t seem the type that goes crazy and has sex in -”

“Church?” Illya suggested and looked a little smug.

“Yes,” Napoleon said. “For example there. You don't seem like a -”

“Dog?” Illya said.

Napoleon lowered his face and chuckled. He shook his head and faced Illya again. “Gaby is right; you're funnier in the mafia,” he said.

The little frown between Illya’s brows smoothed. “She said that?” he asked, trying to make it sound like it didn’t really matter. “Did she say something else?”

Napoleon smirked at him. “Really? You want to know what a girl said about you?”

Illya pressed his mouth in a tight line, turned his head away and felt ridiculous.

 

***

 

Gaby stirred her tea, deep in thought, and didn’t notice Vasiliy coming to the kitchen. She only noticed him when he spoke to her from the refrigerator. “What did you say?” Gaby had to ask.

“How is your Russian?” Vasiliy asked. “We speak English and you speak that with Illya too. I assume you are not fluent.”

“I understand better than I speak,” Gaby said. “Almost everything. You don’t have to speak English if it's trouble.”

“No, no,” Vasiliy shook his head. “That is not a problem. But i need someone to come meet somebody with me. You don't have to say anything, just be there, sit on the armrest, look displeased and disappointed. But it would help if you understand what we were saying.”

“You want me to do what Zoya normally does?” Gaby asked.

“Yes,” Vasiliy said and looked pleased when Gaby understood what he wanted. “She is not here and I need somebody now.”

“I can do that,” Gaby promised. She watched Vasiliy put ham on his bread, spatter it with mustard, and add thick pickle slices. “For a moment I thought you had been sent here to babysit me,” Gaby sighed. “But you came here to get away from your diet.”

Vasiliy stopped and glanced at Gaby under his brows. “Zoya must not find out about this,” he said firmly.

“I’m sure she doesn't ask,” Gaby suspected. “And if she does, I will just… lie,” she carried on and tilted her head and let a little grin curl her lips.

“Are you blackmailing me?” Vasiliy asked, his bushy brows furrowing.

“I haven't asked anything,” Gaby pointed out playfully. “So it’s really more like threatening.”

Vasiliy grinned back at her. “How does Illya cope with you?” he wondered.

“He doesn't,” Gaby chuckled. “But it's endearing how hard he tries.”

 

***

 

Gaby sat on the armrest of Vasiliy’s chair and looked at the man opposite her like she was supposed to do. The air in the den smelled of cigars and Vasiliy’s cologne. The thin, dark haired man looked nervous in his chair even when Vasiliy wasn’t threatening; he spoke calmly and with a steady voice. He called the thin man Boris Karev and told him he was very disappointed at what he had discovered. Gaby didn't know what Vasiliy had discovered, but she didn’t need to. She was there only as an understudy. Zoya was still in the city and somebody needed to fill her spot on Vasiliy’s armrest, looking disappointed, playing a part in his performance.

“Do you know how it feels when somebody you have worked with for years has been stealing from you?” Vasiliy sighed disappointed. “Somebody you have been treating like part of your family.”

Karev glanced at Gaby nervously and returned to look at Vasiliy.

“And the worst part is that we have been here before. We have had this conversation twice before,” Vasiliy sighed. “Do you remember?”

Karev nodded and his right hand moved to his left arm and he rubbed it. It was only a little movement but it did not go unnoticed by Gaby. Apparently broken limbs were Vasiliy’s second warning. Gaby wasn’t sure if she really wanted to know what the third one would be. Or if there even was a third one.

“And you did this,” Vasiliy said. “Am I not paying you enough? Is that why you steal from me?”

“I didn't steal from you,” Karev finally spoke. “You got all your money.”

“But you gave a different price to the customers,” Vasiliy pointed out. “They gave you more and you kept the difference. That is stealing, isn't it?” he asked Gaby.

Gaby nodded. “It’s stealing,” she assured in Russian.

“Even the куколка says it’s stealing,” Vasiliy said. “And she is smart, so it must be. So why did you do it? Do you think me so stupid I wouldn't notice your embezzlement?” Vasiliy asked and looked confused.

Gaby liked his arrogant act. It was obvious he wasn't confused, he acted like that merely to mock the opponent.

Karev huffed, frustrated, and moved to sit on the edge of his chair. He was noticeably more agitated than moments before. “If you would just -”

“If I would just what?” Vasiliy grunted. “If I would just be more stupid? Give you more responsibility? What?”

Karev leaned back in against the backrest. “There is no reason to talk to you when you are like this.”

“Haven't I been understanding?” Vasiliy asked again, sounding confused, opened his eyes wide and turned to Gaby, who had to hold her smile. “Haven't I been understanding? Reasonable even?”

“You have been very reasonable,” Gaby assured him.

“Куколка says I have been,” Vasiliy said to Karev like he couldn't hear what Gaby was saying himself. Vasiliy sighed and leaned in his chair and shook his head. “How should I react in this situation?” he asked.

Gaby could hear the tense undertone of his otherwise calm voice and looked at the man across the room and searched his face for some sign that he was hearing it too. But he looked like he couldn't hear it. He only huffed again, reluctant to accept that he had been caught, stupid enough to think that he could make the thing go away by shaking his head.

“I want to go through the numbers again,” Vasiliy said and glanced at the surroundings and turned to Gaby. “Куколка, could you get the papers? I left those in that little blue parlor.”

“Of course,” Gaby said. She stood up gracefully and exited the room. The hallway with its cream coloured silk wallpaper and big windows to the outside was bright after the dimly lit den and she needed to squint as she walked along it. When her eyes got used to the light she could see the cherry trees blooming in the orchard. For a moment she stopped and watched the trees, a tangible sign that she was getting married.

There were no papers in the little blue parlor. She went to the kitchen because they had been there, but his papers weren't there either. She hummed, displeased, and returned to the den. “I couldn’t find the pape…” her sentence was left unfinished when she stepped in and looked at Vasiliy. He straightened his back like he was just getting up from hunching near the floor and dropped the heavy marble clock from his hand. It hit the floor with a loud and low thump. He had blood splatter on his face and on his white shirt; his hair was messed.

“Gaby,” he sighed and stepped away from behind the couch, over Karev’s legs that were lying on top of the thick rug completely still. Gaby couldn't see the rest of him. “Yes, I remembered I had the papers here all along,” he said and switched back to English.

Gaby didn’t believe him. He had sent her away on purpose. Apparently there wouldn’t be a third warning.

“You do not want to see this,” Vasiliy said, took his pocket square and wiped the blood spatter from his forehead. “You should go on a nice drive.”

“Illya has the car,” Gaby said and finally turned her eyes away from Karev’s legs.

“You take my car. It is a good car. Safe. Good for a girl like you,” Vasiliy said. “You know where the keys are, yes?”

Gaby nodded.

“Good. You go for a ride and don’t worry about this,” Vasiliy gave her instructions and moved to stand in the doorway so Gaby had to take a step back and she couldn't see inside the den anymore. “It is a beautiful area. You will enjoy it.”

Gaby nodded again and Vasiliy looked pleased. She left, but turned to look at him over her shoulder. Vasiliy smiled at her before closing the wooden door after him. Gaby took a deep breath of air, went to pick up the keys from the garage, stepped in Vasiliy’s big Bentley S3 and drove away.

 

***

 

Gaby walked to the painting close to the church's door and looked at the faces of people stuck in purgatory.

“The blushing bride herself,” Napoleon said and walked to her.

Gaby turned around quickly. “I didn’t know you were here. I don’t have anything to report.”

“Of course you don’t,” Napoleon nodded. “Let’s go then, my child. This is the house of the Lord; you can unburden your heart here.”

“Don’t make this weird,” Gaby said, frowning, and followed Napoleon to the vestry.

“Cobbler?” Napoleon offered.

“What?” Gaby asked.

Napoleon told Gaby to sit down and shook his head. He offered her a plate of peach cobbler with custard.

“This is nice,” Gaby said. “Vasiliy send me away from the manor. He had some messy business to attend and he didn't want me to be there,” Gaby explained her reasons for being there. She sighed and looked at Napoleon, her brows in frustrated frown. “This whole wedding business has me all messed up. Vasiliy killed somebody just now in his den. Probably bashed his head with a marble clock,” she explained.

Napoleon leaned forward in his chair. “Did he threaten you?” he asked, concerned.

“No,” Gaby asured. “Nothing like that. He urged me to take his car and go for a drive so I didn't have to be there. And I know I should be shocked by it. Even scared. But do you know what my crazy brain said to me?” she asked and then carried on before Napoleon got the chance to say anything: “I’m thinking; how dare he, this close to my wedding?” Gaby sighed, her eyes wide. “I should be thinking that it’s scary but all I think is didn’t he consider me at all when he decided to kill somebody there today. I’m getting married there day after tomorrow and now there is one room messed up with blood. It’s not like we are going to use his study, but I know what happened in there. This is my wedding, I’m the bride and he just killed somebody while I was in the house. Didn’t he consider my feelings at all?”

Napoleon couldn't hold his grin when Gaby looked so utterly confused.

“I shouldn't be thinking like that. And it’s not only that,” Gaby huffed. “There are other things that have happened because I don't know any more what is real.”

“Are you talking about the sex you had with Peril?” Napoleon inquired and Gaby’s spoon stopped halfway between the plate and her mouth and she stared at him, looking guilty. “Yes, I know about that.”

“How?” Gaby asked quietly.

“Well you didn't tell me. How many other people were involved?” Napoleon asked.

“Did Illya tell you?” Gaby wondered.

“He was here earlier, talking about it and eating cobbler,” he confessed. “Sounds like an urban legend but it’s in fact true. But it’s not like he told it straight, it needed to be forced out of him. It was like pulling a tooth. And he gave me no details whatsoever. But basically yes.”

“What did he tell? Gaby asked carefully. “Did he say anything special about me?” 

Napoleon’s other brow arched when he looked at Gaby a little pitifully. “Really? That is what you want to know?” He crossed his arms on his chest and Gaby turned her face away. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

“I can’t ask that,” Gaby said almost agitated. “We agreed that we are not doing it again and the case is closed. I can’t just go back to it and ask did he enjoy it or something.”

“Of course he did,” Napoleon said.

“Did he said that?” Gaby asked interested.

“No. But it’s Peril. I don’t think his social life is that active. Any progress is like a winning the lottery for him. And I don’t want to sell my own gender short but we are not that complicated. If you offer us sex, we probably enjoy that. I’m sure he would’ve enjoyed even if you had just lay still like a corpse and I don’t think you are that sort of person,” Napoleon said and watched Gaby consideringly, made her frown at him. “I think you are quite active in bed. So if anything, it was too much for him. But I’m sure he will cope with that. Don’t worry.”

Gaby hummed and set her plate on the desk. Her lips curled into a smile. “I find it hard to believe that Illya came voluntarily to talk with you,” she said. “Quite sweet actually.”

Napoleon found Gaby’s little smile slightly nauseating. “No, he didn’t. He only came to sit in the church. He specifically said that he didn’t want to see the priest.”

Gaby frowned. “Even he must have understood that if he says something like that you’d just come around quicker to annoy him,” she pointed out.

Napoleon straightened in his chair. “Are you saying he said it so he would get me to come around but he could still get to say that he didn’t really want to see me?”

Gaby shrugged.

“That sneaky Russian,” Napoleon muttered and grinned. “He had sex with a girl and wanted to brag about it. If I didn’t know who we are talking about, I would say it would be a completely normal human being. You two are doing a very good job of making me feel more like a priest by constantly coming here to talk about your problems.”

Gaby shook her head, amused. 

“Now then,” Napoleon sighed. “I need details. Or some sort of review. Somebody has tell me. And Peril didn’t.”

“I’m not going to give you any details,” Gaby said.

“Fine,” Napoleon nodded. “I’m going to assume it was frightfully bad and wait for you to defend yourself, or him.”

Gaby pursed her lips and leaned back in her chair.

“Was there some particular reason why it was so bad?” Napoleon started. “And was it both of you? Or just him? Peril seems like somebody who has no idea what he is doing with a naked girl,” he grinned and Gaby glanced at him, looking bored. “I expect there were tears; he probably cried and confessed his undying love for you after he came. Probably called you some sappy name and you thought it was the most romantic thing ever. Or maybe it was really clumsy and awkward. Did one of you fall off the bed maybe? Were there other injuries? You both look fine but you can never be sure,” he carried on and Gaby tried to hold her smile. “Or maybe he called you by his mother’s name. Do you think it was an accident or did he do it on purpose?”

Gaby’s smile withered away. “That’s not even funny,” she said, annoyed.

Napoleon grinned his smug little grin when Gaby started to crack. “Did he ask you to do something degrading. I’m going to assume he did if you don't correct me. Now I just need to figure out what it could've been,” he pondered and tapped his bottom lip with his finger. “Did he -”

“It was good,” Gaby huffed in frustration. “Okay? It was good. He was good. There wasn’t anything degrading, no one cried. It was good.” She pressed her lips together just in case she was going to add something more. She was going to storm out and cause a scene if her body did something stupid, like blush.

“I can’t believe it was this easy to crack you,” Napoleon sighed and shook his head like he had some reason to be disappointed.

 

***

 

The dining room was warm and Gaby leaned against the cool window in the lobby. She looked outside in the dark where Polina climbed into Vasiliy’s Bentley and drove off. Gaby wondered where she was going this late. She pushed herself away from the window and returned to the dining room's warmth and all the people. Returned to Illya.

She walked behind him, set her hand on his shoulder and let it travel over his back. Somebody in love would do something like that. And Gaby wanted to do that. Illya’s arm bent up and his fingers snatched her hand and pulled it close to his face. He kissed her fingers. Somebody in love would do that. And Illya wanted to do that. Gaby sat down and Illya let her fingers go only then, slowly and unwillingly.

It was easy to claim they were doing it all for the cover, but that would’ve made both of them liars. Gaby was taking advantage of the situation, as was Illya. Little touches here and there, leaning close when they needed to say something. Illya leaned closer like it was important to say things quietly, so close to her that he could smell the scent of her perfume on her neck. Gaby leaned closer and pretended like she needed every time to take hold of Illya’s thigh so she didn't tip over. His muscles tightened slightly every time she touched him.

Their newly formed decision to keep their distance crumbled under the cover when they had no choice but to pretend to be in love. And it was so easy. It took no effort to lean closer, look into each other's eyes. It felt good to sweep aside all silly decisions and ensure they were really committing to the cover. Illya leaned so close his nose brushed Gaby’s ear and her hand touched his thigh even when she wasn't the one leaning closer.

Mostly they were concentrating on the surroundings and other people, the dinner, the conversation, but now and then everything else felt very distant when one of them leaned closer and tested the boundaries of their agreement.

Zoya looked at Gaby over the table and tapped her wrist watch.

“We should go to sleep, Gaby said. “It’s a long day tomorrow.”

Illya nodded but was reluctant to leave. Here he got to sit next to her and enjoy Gaby’s soft smile and hand on his thigh. Upstairs they were separated by two different bedrooms and their own agreement. Still he got up, pulled Gaby’s chair out for her. Gaby took his hand on her own. Neither of them let go even when they left the dining room. It was better to keep holding on, somebody could see them, it would be weird if they were to let go. Their pace slowed down the closer they got to the upstairs and their rooms. Finally there was no choice but to stop at Gaby’s door.

She eased her grip and Illya let her hand slip away from his. Gaby lifted her gaze to his eyes and leaned against her door. She felt like she should say something witty, something that would make the situation more light. Joke about the rooms or tomorrow or something. But she couldn't get any joke out of her. She didn't want to joke. Her heart was pounding in her chest only because Illya was looking at her. Both were on the cusp of breaking the decisions they had made but wanted some signal from the other that was it okay.

“Your fiancé would give you a good night kiss,” Illya said quietly.

Gaby hummed. She kept staring at his face that looked softer than usual; his blue eyes and that scar she always felt like deserved somebody kissing it daily. “He would.”

Illya stepped in and closed the distance between them. Gaby rose on her toes and slid her hands over his shoulders. Illya’s face was almost against hers, but he didn't kiss her yet. Gaby’s lips parted and her eyes almost closed. She held her breath those few seconds as Illya came closer, his lips brushing against hers, allowing the anticipation to grow. Gaby’s fingers moved on his collar and she closed her eyes when Illya finally kissed her. Completely unnecessary kiss. They were alone in the corridor and they knew it. But then it wasn't the engaged couple getting married tomorrow kissing, but Illya and Gaby who were there working and not caring what anybody said. Illya’s hand slid between Gaby and the door and he pulled her closer, his hand firmly on the small of her back. Gaby hummed against his lips and her warm hands stroked his neck. When they pulled apart, Gaby let her heels hit back on the floor.

“Доброй ночи,” Illya muttered and there was a hint of a smile on his lips. He leaned his hands on the door frame, stayed very close to her.

It felt like Illya gave her the power to decide what would happen next. He had already taken the first step, he had kissed her when nobody was there to see it. Illya had shown his cards; let her know that he didn’t really want to keep away from her. He wanted closer and now he would let her decide if she wanted that too. He held her gaze, made Gaby’s body melt against the door. She reached the door handle behind her back, turned it and backed into the room. For a moment Gaby waited, bit her lower lip pondering and then finally reached her hand to touch Illya’s chest. Fingertips barely brushing against his shirt, sliding slowly down, over the buttons, stopping at his belt. Her finger crooked under it and she pulled Illya in, his hands let go off the door frame and he closed the door after him.

 


	10. Something blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's not even go the reason why this is so late. It is. I am sorry. I hope you like it.

Illya let Gaby do whatever she wanted. He let her push him onto the bed, yank her narrow dress up her thighs so she could straddle him. He let her open his tie and pull it slowly off his neck, the silk swishing softly against the collar. He enjoyed it when she opened the buttons of his shirt and kissed the crook of his neck like she was going to sink her teeth in him. Her kisses were playful but a little rough and her soft bites on his neck and ear made his skin tingle.

Gaby’s tongue slid over his Adam’s apple and her hand slowly found its way between his legs. Illya grunted quietly when that was all it took to make him hard. Gaby unbuckled his belt and zipper, yanked the trousers off of him. She pushed his jacket over his shoulders and helped him out of his shirt. Illya’s hand moved to open the zipper on her dress. He struggled with it when Gaby kissed him like he couldn't believe anybody could even kiss. She was soft and intense all at the same time.

She let go of him, backed up on the floor and pushed her dress down. Illya rose to lean on his elbows to look at her and Gaby smiled at him. Her little mischievous smile, the one which showed her dimples and which had previously led to dancing and wrestling.

Illya moved his legs on the carpet closer to Gaby so that their ankles touched. For no other reason than to touch her. Gaby dropped her underwear on the floor and allowed him to watch. She stepped back closer, as close as she could, her legs against the edge of the bed, between Illya’s thighs. She bent down, crooked her fingers under the waistband of his underwear like she had done when she pulled him inside the room, fingers under his belt. Illya lifted his hips off the bed and let her strip the last piece of clothing he was wearing.

Gaby’s palms pressed against his thighs so she didn’t tip over when she let herself bend down until her lips touched the skin near her hand. Illya gulped when her soft kisses traveled up, her fingers squeezed his tightened muscles like tiny claws and he let his back rest against the bed. Finally her warm tongue touched his erection, licked its way up. He let out a deep sigh when Gaby’s hand grabbed him and closed his eyes when her warm mouth covered him. The hot throb inside of him grew, he felt her warm mouth and her moving fingers on him, but he wanted to see. He wanted to see her hovering over him, her fingers clenching on his thigh, her lips around his cock. He opened his eyes just when her hand gripped harder and his whole body jerked when the hot bolt of pleasure rushed through his spine.

With a delicious wet noise, Gaby let her mouth slide off of him. “Move up,” she ordered.

He moved better on the bed, managed that even when she made it very difficult by climbing on the bed, hands and knees against the mattress, hovering over him, kissing him, rubbing her tongue against his tongue.

“Higher,” Gaby ordered and ducked to kiss his neck. “Higher,” she muttered against his skin.

Illya couldn't hold his smile when Gaby gave her soft orders. He was already fully on the bed. He had to tilt himself slightly up, let his shoulders press against the headboard. Her thighs pressed firmly on both side of his hips when she set her weight on him, rocked her hips against him, made him hum pleased. Illya’s hands took a hold on her hips, his muscles tensed up when he pushed himself up to kiss her breasts.

Gaby let him, it felt too good to stop immediately. But then her hands moved slowly on his shoulders and determinedly she pressed him back against the headboard.

Illya gasped quietly at her sudden shove, but let her do that too. Her fingers gripped his wrists when she pressed those against the headboard. He tried to hold his very pleased grin and allowed her to be as determined as she liked to be.

Gaby let the weight of her upper body lock Illya’s wrists against the carved wood of the bed, kept him pinned on his place. She rolled her hips against him, ducked down to kiss him again. Her warm flesh rubbed against Illya’s erection, made him squirm under her, mutter impatiently against their kiss.

She found her place and let her weight again slowly sink down, centimeter by centimeter, taking Illya inside of her. He sighed when Gaby’s slick and tight flesh squeezed him. She felt hot inside, eager outside, rocked herself against him, took what she wanted, gave herself to him.

Finally Gaby’s hands let Illya’s wrists go. She grabbed the edge of the headboard. Her head bent back when Illya craned his head up to kiss her neck. His tongue licked its way up her throat, kissed her jawline, hands grabbed her hips, slid onto her buttcheeks, pulled her closer with every rock of her hips. Gaby mumbled happily and allowed him to wrap his arms over her, tilt himself up toward her, and kiss her. Her hips slowed down, stopped moving and her grip loosened from the headboard.

For a moment Gaby let herself relax against Illya, let him pull her down with him, held her close. Her lips curled into a smile she couldn't held back even if she tried. Gaby pulled her head back a little so she could see Illya. He swept hair from her cheek and leaned in, his lips brushing her lips. Slowly he gave a little bite to her lower lip, so soft it felt like a another kiss. Faint whisper of nothing escaped from Gaby’s lips. His lips kissed her again, his tongue licked carefully against her tongue, his fingers drew lazy spirals on her back and everything made her skin rise into goosebumps.

Gaby pushed him back against the carved wood, practically attacked him, kissed him so that he couldn't breathe, grabbed his shoulders so hard her short nails left little half moons on his skin. Illya couldn't do much more than take it all. It was new and intriguing to him to let somebody else be in charge. Illya liked it. He liked that she did as she pleased and was happy he was the one she wanted to do all those things to. His hands moved to the small of her back, slid down, guided her movements closer to him. Gaby let him do that, but set the pace herself, grabbed the edge of the headboard, and made Illya gasp from pleasure.

 

***

 

Napoleon wanted to scratch his back. It itched and the more he thought about it the more it itched. But he stayed still. The temperature in the vicarage was a little cool even when there was a fire in the fireplace. The warmth radiated on his thigh and side and made him want to turn around so the other side could get its share. But if he couldn’t scratch his back he couldn't turn around either.

“You moved,” Polina muttered.

Napoleon frowned. “No,” he claimed.

Polina hummed. “Yes, you did.”

Napoleon glanced over his shoulder. “You know this wasn’t really what I thought would happen when you asked me to take my clothes off,” he noted.

“Head,” Polina said and pointed him with her finger and Napoleon turned his head back away from her.

“And I’m not sure this is appropriate behavior from a priest,” Napoleon muttered.

“I think you are not that good a priest,” Polina sighed.

“You only say that because we had sex in the church,” Napoleon pointed out.

“And you lied about that being something that is forbidden for you to do,” Polina said.

“You assumed it was,” Napoleon said over his shoulder. “I just didn't correct you.”

Polina turned to look at him, lowered the hand and paintbrush. “I do not think that makes you any better a priest,” she suspected.

Napoleon hummed. Maybe it didn’t. He reached for his whiskey glass from the side table even when Polina looked at him, displeased when he moved again. He grinned at her, straightened his back, but kept the glass in his hand. “I think this is unfair. I understand that I need to stay still, but there is no reason why I’m the only one without clothes on. You could be supportive and at least take your dress off.”

Polina glanced at him. She set the brush aside. Napoleon turned to look at her when he heard the zipper opening. She pushed her dress down to the floor and folded it neatly on the couch.

“Much better,” Napoleon assured her when Polina walked back to the easel. Her stockings were so thin he could only see the lace edge that was attached to her garter belt. She took her brush and twirled it in the air and gestured at him to turn back. “How are the wedding arrangements going?“ he asked and sipped his whiskey.

“Well,” Polina said. “There have been no problems. Not since the bride cut away part of her dress because she did not want any ruffles.”

“Did what?” Napoleon asked and was happy Polina couldn't see his grin.

Polina hummed and tilted her head at the painting.

“I hope you are not in trouble for being here,” Napoleon said.

“My husband is not here,” Polina told. “He says he still has business in the city.”

“Maybe he will drive here after,” Napoleon suggested.

“No,” Polina shook her head. “He does not. If he says he has business he does not come home before morning.” She set the brush back down and sighed. “Once it bothered me,” she carried on. “At the beginning. When I still… He meets other women. Whores most likely. It does not bother me. At least when he is with them I don't have to be with him.”

Napoleon wondered what kind of sex they were having. He doubted she got very much from it.

“I think he…”

Napoleon looked over his shoulder. “What?”

Polina glanced at him quickly. “I think he works for somebody else,” she said out loud, something she had suspected for a while. “He has been different for a few months. Smug. And there is no reason why he should be. Some time ago there was an attack against us. A shooting after a dinner at the restaurant. No one died but that was only luck.”

“Sounds scary,” Napoleon said emphatically.

“I was not there,” Polina said. “Anatoly changed his mind before and we did not go,” Polina explained and took a few steps across the floor. Napoleon let himself relax when there was no reason to stay stiffly in one position and leaned against a heavy leather armchair. “There was nothing weird about that. He does that sometimes. But he always leaves himself. But not that night. He stayed in. That was unusual. And then there was a shooting there. I think he… I think he knew about it. And…”

“And what?” Napoleon asked interested.

Polina stopped moving and turner to look at him. “Gaby, the one getting married tomorrow. There was an attack against her. A hired hitman tried to kill her. There is no reason for that. But her fiancé is the man who has taken Anatoly’s job in our organisation,” Polina explained. “And I think when we heard about that and that she did not die, he seemed… angry.”

Napoleon sipped his whisky and covered his tense face with the tilting glass. It seemed like Vasiliy had been right in assuming that the Yugoslavs weren’t behind Gaby’s attempted murder.

“That would be something he would do,” Polina muttered and looked through the wall without really seeing anything. “Cowardly. Not to strike directly against the one he wants to hurt but against somebody they care about. I think that is the most horrible thing you can do to anybody; take away their happiness, the things they love.”

Napoleon wasn’t sure he had ever been in love. He doubted he had. But he did know how it felt to care about people. Even when Illya and Gaby had been clearly together from the start without actually being together, he never felt like a third wheel with them. And if Illya lost Gaby, so would Napoleon. They didn’t have the same kind of relationship, but he did care. Gaby was his ally when they were doing something Illya was against. Gaby was the one he drank with evenings when Illya didn't. Gaby was the one he was teaching lock picking and other clever little tricks he assumed Illya either knew already or could learn probably better without him interfering.

Now he wondered should he inform Gaby and Illya who really was behind the hit. Maybe it would be better not to tell, not yet anyway. Maybe the wedding would run more smoothly if Illya didn't scowl at anybody like he was going to rip them open with his bare hands.

Polina turned to face Napoleon. “He is like that; likes to take happiness from others.”

Napoleon looked over Polina in her cream coloured underwear, garter belt, neatly combed blond hair, pearls on her neck. She was sad and broken but still standing on her own two feet; in front of a strange man, paint stains on her fingers. Anatoly liked to keep her on a tight leash and still she was in the vicarage, painting a picture of a naked priest, taking her dress off when asked. Napoleon couldn't do anything about Anatoly right now, but he could do thing or two to her. And everything she did that Anatoley couldn't control was a blow against him.

“Take off your underwear, Napoleon ordered.

Polina looked him for a while, seemed like she was considering what she wanted to do, then bent her arms behind her back and opened her bra, let it drop to the floor.

“All of it,” Napoleon said and finished his whisky in one gulp. He set the glass on the table nearby and watched her undress herself. She took her time but didn’t hesitate. When she was ready her hands rose to open her pearls. “Did your husband buy those?” Napoleon asked.

“Yes,” Polina answered and her hands stopped.

“Leave them on,” Napoleon said. “I want to see those when I fuck his wife.”

Polina let her hands flop to her sides.

Napoleon walked to her, lifted his fingers to touch the pearls and then her neck. Again he wondered was he really just taking advantage of the situation and her. Her neck bent under his touch and her eyes almost closed. “You can say no,” he felt the need to remind her.

“I know,” Polina sighed so quietly he barely heard her.

Napoleon’s hands smoothed her skin slowly down, fingers only brushing her; over her breast, stomach and hips. He made a little loop on her thigh and started climbing back up. Polina gasped quietly and her hands took his shoulders for balance when his fingers crooked inside her. Napoleon didn't think she was going to say no anymore.

 

****

 

They were lying on the bed facing each other, Illya’s hand tangled in her hair, Gaby’s fingers touching his chin, her bent leg leaning against his hip.

“That was stupid,” Gaby muttered but her lips were smiling softly. “Again.”

“Yes,” Illya agreed. “Very stupid,” he muttered and the corners of his mouth twitched.

“Now we really shouldn't do this anymore,” Gaby noted. She looked at her own fingers on Illya’s chin, watched her thumb stroke it.

Illya nodded. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and let his fingers slide along Gaby’s neck. “Although,” he started and Gaby’s gaze shifted quickly to his eyes. She bit her lower lip and waited for him to continue, tried not to smile. “Tomorrow is our wedding night. It would be wise to play it out,” Illya said. “For the sake of the cover,” he stressed and nodded as emphasis and looked serious in a way that wasn't really serious.

Gaby hummed quickly. “That would probably be wise,” she agreed and leaned in to kiss him. “For the sake of the cover,” she agreed. Gaby wasn't sure where they had landed on the whole carrying her over the threshold but she was sure Illya would do it. He would open all the little buttons on the back of her white dress with his big hands. He would kiss her neck while he did that. He would be slow, make her tremble with anticipation, she was sure. “Next time you see me I’ll be wearing my wedding dress,” Gaby reminded him.

“That is… weird,” Illya confessed. “Nice, but weird.”

Gaby nodded. “Are you going to say _I do_ in the church or do you have you some plan to cause a scene and leave me at the altar?” she asked and let her hand slide over his shoulder in his back.

A slight grin curled Illya’s lips. “I am sure somebody would shoot me,” he suspected. “Zoya, I think.”

“Without hesitation,” Gaby assured. “And Vaska would nod at her approvingly.”

“I would not do that,” Illya said. “Why wouldn't I want to marry you?”

“I leave biscuit crumbs on the coffee table,” Gaby reminded.

“You use plate,” Illya said.

“I do?” Gaby asked.

Illya nodded. “You were quite easy to train.”

Gaby yanked the spare pillow from the bed and hit him with it. Illya took it from her easily and rolled her under him, against the mattress.

“You even put your clothes in the laundry basket instead of leaving those lying around,” Illya muttered. “In two weeks I can get you to cook and iron my shirts.”

Gaby chuckled. “No, you can’t,” she promised.

Illya hummed as he disagreed with her and ducked down to kiss her neck. “I can train you to bake,” he muttered between his soft kisses.

Gaby closed her eyes and enjoyed his touch; his lips on her neck, hands that were brushing her side. She turned her head and glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “You need to go,” Gaby sighed. “You can't stay here. It's bad luck if you see me in the morning.”

“I do not think it applies if the wedding is not real,” Illya pointed out gently and lifted her lips from her neck.

“I know,” Gaby assured. “I mean the bad luck when Zoya finds you here when she rushes in before dawn and has a fit when you see me before church.”

Illya smiled and leaned into kiss Gaby. His hand slid slowly along her thigh. “Fine,” he finally said

Gaby was immediately disappointed when his bodyweight disappeared from on top of her. It was nice to know that the next night he could stay next to her all night.

Illya got up from the bed, glanced at Gaby who didn’t even try to pretend that she wasn't staring at him. Illya grabbed his trousers from the floor and pulled them on. He looked at Gaby turning on the bed, resting her chin on her hand.She watched him dress, rolled softly on her back, her arms bent up, hanging over the edge of the bed. She tilted her head and watched him pulling his shirt back on upside down, bent her other knee up. Illya closed a few buttons and went to her. It felt hard to leave her alone in the bed, looking so beautiful. He set his hand on the bed and leaned down to kiss her. Gaby hummed against his lips, he could feel her smile before her mouth opened and her whole body arced when she reached closer to Illya and locked him into a kiss he couldn't pull away from. Not that he tried. Gaby sighed pleased when she let her lips pull away.

Illya cleared his throat when he straightened his back. Gaby didn't really help his leaving one bit. “Good night,” he said. “Chop shop girl.”

 

***

 

Zoya knocked on the door but stepped in without waiting for Gaby to invite her in. “Morning,” she greeted cheerfully and pushed the curtains aside to let the bright sunlight in the room. Gaby squinted and slowly got up to sit. She held the duvet against her and yawned.

“Did you sleep well?” Zoya asked and open the curtains on the second window.

Gaby made a little noise as an answer.

Zoya bent down and picked a tie from the carpet. She held it up and looked Gaby, her brows lifted high.

“I don’t know how that got there,” Gaby muttered.

“Is that so?” Zoya asked and threw the tie on a chair. She disappeared into the en-suite. “I will make you a bath. Rose water and bubbles,” she informed Gaby.

“Can I go have some breakfast first?” Gaby asked.

“You can not go downstairs,” Zoya said when she returned to the room. “Someone will bring your breakfast here.”

“Can I leave the room at all before we go to the church?” Gaby asked carefully.

“Of course not,” Zoya said like it was obvious. “We don’t want Illya to see you. You will stay here, like a little hostage,” she smiled at her and smoothed Gaby’s messy hair. “Do not worry about this, the hairdresser will sort it out,” she said and then lifted her chin gently and looked at her neck. “And this too. There is not that much to cover anymore. I will go to see that you get your breakfast. Go to the bath,” she ordered and left Gaby alone.

She flopped back to lie down. Her hair scattered across her face and she swiped it aside. The bright light from the windows still made her squint when she looked out. She was nervous and excited, chewed her bottom lip and rubbed her toes against the mattress. Reason said to her that there was nothing to be nervous about. This was just one day she pretended to be somebody else, doing something that wasn't really real. And still it was her wedding day and it felt like a wedding day. It had nothing to do with the cover, she felt very strongly that she was getting married today.

Gaby crawled up from the bed, let the duvet drop mostly on the floor and leaned against the windowsill. The trees in the orchard bloomed white and soft pink, like they were supposed to. She went to the bathroom, closed the tap before the tub overflowed and climbed in the rose-scented water. Underwater she could hear her rapid pulse in her ears.

 

***

 

Bernice knocked on the vestry door and opened it only when there was an answer from the other side. “I made you cup of tea before the wedding,” she said when she entered.

Napoleon nodded at her from behind his desk. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful,” he said and smiled.

“Do you need something else?” Bernice asked.

“No,” Napoleon assured. “Everything is in order. I’m going to read through my notes, that’s all.”

Bernice nodded and pulled the door close after her. Napoleon stood up and returned to the cupboard and opened it like it had been before Bernice had knocked. He took the half empty magazine and continued filling it with bullets. He set it next to the other magazines and nodded to himself when everything in the cupboard was in order; the bottles of holy communion wine, extra hymnals, loaded guns. He felt like it wasn't bad idea to be prepared.

 

***

 

Illya glanced at himself from the mirror after somebody had come to cover up the bruise on his cheekbone. It wasn’t that visible anymore but Zoya had wanted to it to be covered. Now Illya couldn't tell without knowing that there even was a bruise on him. He attached his cufflinks when Vasiliy stepped in without knocking. He had got used to the idea that no one seemed to knock. And if they did they didn't wait for anybody to give permission to step in.

Vasiliy went to the side table, fixed two drinks and handed one to Illya. He didn't argue, it was easier to accept the drink. And the burn in his throat felt good. For a moment Illya was sure that he was nervous, but he pushed that idea out of his mind.

“I have something for you,” Vasiliy said and took something from the inside pocket of his jacket.

Illya set his glass on the dresser and took the little black book Vasiliy handed him. He flipped through few pages and at looked the Cyrillic text; names and info of people. Page after page.

“Our associates,” Vasiliy said.

Illay didn’t lift his gaze from the little book. It was all they needed. All the intel they would need to shut down the entire network of the Russian mafia. All the associates, the whole network Vasiliy and the Dragomirovs had built, all the contractors and clients; everybody.

“You are part of the family,” Vasiliy said and patted his shoulder when he walked past him. “It’s good for you to know who is who.”

Illya swallowed. The little book in his hand was a signal that everything was over.

Vasiliy took the vodka bottle from the side table and went to the dresser where Illya’s glass was. “Another?” he asked.

Finally Illya tore his eyes from the book and looked at him. He nodded slowly.

“No need to be nervous,” Vasiliy said, then he poured the drink. “It’s just a paper. And a party. I doubt your life will change that much.”

Illya took the drink and gulped it down in one go.

Vasiliy grinned at him. “It will go fine,” he assured him. He put the bottle away. “I saw Anatoly.”

Illya’s jaw tightened. It’s not like he had expected him to stay away until the nose he had broken had healed, but he had forgotten about that. And Illya had promised Vasiliy to act more patiently. He was quite sure this didn’t fit so well with that. “I… it was -”

“An accident?” Vasiliy suggester and hummed. “Yes, I’m sure it was. This time it doesn’t matter, we need to get rid of him. He is going to cause trouble. But we will wait until after the wedding and your honeymoon. Maybe I will just put my men to deal with it. They will pack him into neat packages and scatter him in different locations. No one will ever hear from him again.”

Illya nodded like it was completely normal to talk about hacking somebody into pieces.

“And I think Polina would be relieved,” Vasiliy said. “Yes. But after the wedding. The car is ready in fifteen minutes. I’ll see you the downstairs.”

When Illya was left alone he sat down on a armchair, slouched against the backrest. He turned to look at the book in his hand and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket so that he didn't have to see it.

He had infiltrated before. He had been part of some organisation before, he’d had fake fiancées before. And even when the fiancée was the same one as before, it all seemed so different; this time he actually felt part of it all. Vasiliy said that he was part of the family and he felt it. They were people he actually liked and people he for some stupid reason wanted to make proud. He had a fiancée he maybe even loved despite how stupid it was. And he didn't want to disappoint these people. He didn't want to disappoint Vasiliy or Zoya. It was the stupidest feeling because he knew it wasn’t true. He knew he couldn't just stay there. It was always going to end and now it had.

Illya let his head lean back against the soft velvet. Technically he could march in Gaby’s room, get her out with some excuse and they could leave right now. The agency could send a tactical team to do its job. But that would be highly suspicious and even if everything went as smoothly as it could they weren’t in the clear yet. There was a car ready for him. Things had gone too far to stop immediately. It was safer for them to go through with the wedding. He could tell Gaby afterwards that there was no need to pretend anymore.

A deep frown creased Illya’s brows when he noticed he was wondering how long he could wait before telling Gaby. He knew it was selfish to even consider not telling her right away, but if he didn’t he could keep her for a little while longer. At least until end of the day. He could pretend to marry her and he could spend his wedding night with her. Stay a little while longer under the cover that felt too good to give up. And if he could keep her today, he could keep her the next day too. Right now he had the power to decide how long Gaby would be his wife and he feared it was something he would selfishly take advantage of. He knew it was wrong but he didn’t want to let her go, not just yet.

Illya closed his eyes and took a deep breath, breathed slowly out. His heart pounded in his chest, his palms were sweating, and he had to accept that he really was nervous. He was nervous because of the situation, about the secret he wanted to keep from her. And also because of fake weddings that felt nothing but fake. It felt so real that it burned inside him like the vodka had before.

 

***

 

Gaby picked at her lunch, moved it around the plate more, then ate and discarded it then. She was too nervous to eat. She twisted her hands the whole time the hairdresser did her hair. The woman Gaby couldn't even remember later teased it and pinned it on the back of her head. Loose curls hung on her neck. Somebody else did her makeup and made the fading bruises on her neck disappear. Zoya sent the woman away when she had finished with her and handed Gaby a glass of champagne.

“Nervous?” she asked.

Gaby nodded and there was no reason to pretend; all her nervousness was real.

“I have something for you,” Zoya said. “Something you can borrow.” She pulled a little black velvet pouch from her purse and handed it to Gaby.

She set her champagne on the edge on the vanity and opened the pouch. She pulled out a old silver hair comb with blue stones gleaming on it. It looked like Zoya had probably polished it recently. Still the black patina was buried deep in the detailed comb. Gaby swallowed, she already knew what was going to happen and it didn’t make her any less anxious.

Zoya took the comb from her hand and pushed it somewhere in middle of her hairdo. Gaby doubted anybody would see it, but it wasn't the point of it anyway. Only she needed to know it was there.

“Something blue,” Zoya said and smiled at her from the mirror. “I used it in my wedding. It was new then. For you it is old. Everything else is new.”

Gaby managed a little smile. She batted her eyelashes when she feared she would get too emotional. It’s not like she couldn't be emotional on her wedding day, but she didn't want to be. Sooner or later Zoya wouldn't look at her like she did now. It was just a matter of days that the mission would be over. Gaby hoped she didn't have to be there when Zoya and Vaska found out who they were. She didn't want them to look at her disappointed and hurt.

Polina walked in and said that the caterers didn't know what flowers went on which table in the dining room. Zoya huffed and left, annoyed.

Gaby handed her veil to Polina. “Could you help with this?”

Polina took the veil and stepped behind her to attach it. She hummed. “I wore that comb too when I got married,” she said. “I hope it brings you better luck.”

Gaby looked at her from the mirror. “Does he treat you good?” she asked.

Polina glanced her. “I am sure you know how he treats me.”

“Reverend Thomas,” Gaby said and lifted her brows. ”I meant him.”

Polina pursed her pink lips and attached the veil to her hair. She sat down next to Gaby in the long bench, her back against the vanity. She lit a cigarette. “Better than Anatoly.”

Gaby nodded.

“I do not believe he is a very good priest,” Polina suspected. “I hope he manages the ceremony.”

Gaby chucked. “I’m sure he has rehearsed that.”

“Well, not yesterday,” Polina said. Gaby grinned at her and brushed her cheeks with the blush brush without anything really changing. “He is very good with his tongue,” Polina admitted and twisted herself to take the marble ashtray from the vanity. She set it on her thigh.

Gaby didn’t doubt that. Napoleon had probably done very extensive research of that matter. “Is Anatoly?” she asked even she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear and turned to look at her.

Polina reached Gaby’s champagne glass from the vanity and took a sip. “I really can not say,” she said seriously, but huffed then almost amused and her lips curled into a smile.

Gaby smiled even though it wasn't really funny. But it still felt funny.

Polina shook her head and chuckled. She leaned on the vanity. “I really should kill him,” she said.

Gaby dropped the brush from her hand when she only twirled it in her hands. “You should,” she agreed and wasn't really sure was either of them joking.

Polina nodded. “Next time when I get the knife from the kitchen I will not hesitate,” she decided. “I will do it right after you have announced that you got pregnant at the wedding night. That will distract Zoya.”

Gaby chuckled when she reached for her champagne glass.

“So you need to hurry with that,” Polina said and smiled.

“I will try my best,” Gaby promised. “For you.”

Polina glanced at her and her other brow rose high. “Do not try to claim you have to actually try. You two act like you are so calm and cool but only manage to look like you are barely holding yourselves back from ripping each other’s clothes away.”

“I doubt that,” Gaby muttered, a little embarrassed, and sipped her champagne.

Polina hummed and nodded at Gaby, assured that she was being serious. She tapped her cigarette over the ashtray and snorted. “It is a nice balance; one marriage starts, another ends.”

“Quite poetic,” Gaby sighed. Polina crushed the rest of her cigarette against the marble and both of them giggled in front of the vanity.

Zoya returned and looked at the smiling. “What are you two giggling about?” she asked.

Both tried to get serious. Polina took a sharp breath of air. “Murder,” she said and Gaby tried to hold her giggles.

Zoya shook her head. “Well, keep your secret,” she urged. “It is almost time to go.”

Polina got up and her hand swiped over Gaby’s shoulder. “I will see you in church,” she said as she left.

Zoya went to the wedding dress that was hanging on the door to the wardrobe. She took it down from the hanger. Gaby stood up and took off her dressing gown. She stepped carefully inside the off-white silk and then stood still while Zoya pulled it on her. Gaby wiped her hair and veil over her shoulder when Zoya started to button the long row of tiny buttons down her back. She could see herself from the mirror hanging on the wall. The dress wrapped her tightly when Zoya buttoned it on her. Gaby took a deep breath. Now when the giggling was over she was nervous again.

Her nerves didn’t go unnoticed by Zoya. Gaby was stiff and and couldn’t hide it. “I did not ask you after you asked me,” Zoya said and gave Gaby something else to think about. “Was it love at first sight? For Illya I think it was. But what about you?”

“No, of course not,” Gaby sighed. “It was…” she had to pause to think. She didn't know. She tried to think about the made-up meeting in the street and Illya asking her out every day for two weeks, but all she could think of was East Berlin and Rome. She thought about Illya in the car next to her in the dark street, talking nonsense at the Spanish steps, taking a few cautious dance steps when she had been teasing him, his hand touching her sides when they lay on the carpet, glancing at her lips when they were practically kissing. She thought about how he had held her in the rain, stroked her hair when the heaters had been tickling her arms and legs, her dress soaking wet. And he had smiled at her, so gently, made her heart jump, and that horrible anxiety she had been feeling since she blew their cover disappeared.

“It was,” she started again, “not love, but I… liked him. He was, well he looked good. And he was different than I expected. Kinder. Lot more than he should've been. Not cold and stiff like he seemed at first.”

Zoya smiled and closed the last buttons. She set Gaby’s hair and veil into place. “And that is why you said yes finally when he wanted to take you out for coffee?”

“What?” Gaby asked. “Yes,” she sighed and remembered that Zoya didn't know anything about East Berlin and Rome.

“But you love him now. That is only thing that matters,” Zoya said.

“Yes,” Gaby said and looked at her mirror image. She felt strange in her wedding dress, her hair done, blue stones in her hair, garter on her thigh. She stared at her face and searched for some sign of her cover, but couldn't see any of it. Maybe she did love him.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to MollokoPlus :)


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